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THE PRINCIPLES AND PROGRESS 
OF ENGLISH POETRY 



^T^^ 



THE 

PRINCIPLES AND PROGRESS 



OF 



ENGLISH POETRY 



WITH REPRESENTATIVE MASTERPIECES 
AND NOTES 



BY 
CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY, Litt.D., LL.D., 

PROFESSOR OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE 
IN THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 

AND 

CLEMENT C. YOUNG, B.L., 

HEAD OF THE ENGLISH DEPARTMENT IN THE LOWELL 
HIGH SCHOOL, SAN FRANCISCO 



Keto gork 
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO.. Ltd. 
1904 

All rights reserved 



OCT 24 1904' 

CL»SS ^ <Vr. ivlo 




K 






' ',C()PYRIGHT, 1904, 
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 



Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1904. 



NottoooO IPrfsa 

J. S. Cusliing & Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 

Norwood, Masa., U.S.A. 



WITH PIPE AND FLUTE 

With pipe and flute the rustic Fan 

Of old made music sweet for man ; 
And wonder hushed the warbling bird, 
And closer drew the calm-eyed herd, — 

The rolling river slowlier ran. 

Ah ! would, — ah ! would, a little span, 
Some air of A ready could fan 

This age of ours, too seldom stirred 
With pipe and flute ! 

But now for gold we plot and plan ; 
And from Beersheba unto Dan, 
Apollo's self might pass tinheard, 
Or find the night-jar's note preferred ; — 
Not so it fared, when time began, 

With pipe and flute I 

Austin Dobson. 



PREFACE 

This book is designed to serve as a kind of compendium or 
manual, not only for students and teachers, but for the general 
reader who takes interest in the materials and history of the higher 
English poetry, and seeks a simple statement of its principles in 
relation to life, conduct, and art. 

In the preface to a little volume, entitled the Poetry of the 
People, I have said that the poetry of refined self-consciousness 
and deliberate art, the poetry that requires analysis, should not be 
forced down the throats of children. The love of poetry should 
precede the study of it. Ballads, poems of national history and 
sentiment, songs and lays that were ever on the lips of our fore- 
fathers because they sprang from the heart, — the poetry of the 
people, in short, — should be made familiar to our children, be- 
cause it is simple, ingenuous, manly, redolent of national tradition 
and fitted to inculcate national ideals in the rising generation. 
Such poetry is enjoyed and loved ; and learned because it is a joy 
to learn it. So a gateway is opened to the Courts of Song, where 
once admitted the novitiate turns not back. He presses from 
cloisters of far-heard melody to the chanting choir ; the echoing 
clerestory calls to his imagination ; his sense is ravished and his 
soul refined with ever new delight. The poetry of the people 
appeals to the communal consciousness and the untutored taste. 
The one it welds, the other fashions. The poetry of art is the 
poetry of the individual, of personal effort or thought, of yearnings 
rarely all comprehended and less than half expressed, of conscious 
idealization, of social themes made spiritual. Sometimes it is the 
criticism of life, sometimes of manners ; sometimes the genial 
mirroring of the truth, sometimes the smile that plays upon its 
face — that mocks, but mocking enlightens and diverts. Sugges- 
tive and allusive, and elusive too, its pleasure is not bounded by 
the melody, but is in the counterpoint and thorough-bass and 



viii PREFACE 

over-tones. It is of the poet of simpler kind that the Bard of 
Venusia writes 

Os tenerum pueri balbumque poeta figurat, 
Torquet ab obscenis jam nunc sermonibus aurem; 

and of the poet who has become more conscious of a social aim — 

Mox etiam pectus praeceptis format amicis, 
Asperitatis et invidiae corrector et viae, 
Recte facta refert, orientia tempora notis 
Instruit exemplis — 

but it is of the poet of art that he concludes 
inopem solatur et aegrum. 

The poetry of art comforts, heartens, and uplifts ; illumines life 
and purifies, creates, and recreates. Such poetry calls for study 
that it may be understood, and so enjoyed. And it is with such 
poetry that this volume deals. 

When the Macmillan Company asked me to collaborate in 
preparing a book planned by Mr. Young, — a book which aimed 
to print with running historical and critical coinment the poems 
required for entrance to most American colleges, — and to write 
an introduction thereto on the principles of poetry, I felt that I 
could not well refuse. For the book was to appear whether I 
chose to be the collaborator or not ; and it was of just the design 
that I had long hoped I might see realized. There had been col- 
lections of poems by the score, with notes and without, and many 
histories of English literature in general, but no volume of poetry 
and the special history of poetry in one. There had been inde- 
pendent and exhaustive treatises on poetics, but very few adapted 
to the use of schools and of the general reader, and none accom- 
panied by the historical and poetic material from which the prin- 
ciples were drawn and to which they might be directly applied. 
The chance to collaborate in a history of poetry certified by the 
masterpieces themselves, limited to the greatest poets and to the 
simplest purpose, and to set some brief outline of a poetic creed 
before a body of readers, ingenuous, because not yet perverted 
by wrong teaching, or at any rate because still desirous of learn- 



PREFACE ix 

ing, — such a chance I felt that I had no right to forego. The 
practical experience of my colleague, his scholarship and assiduity, 
have rendered the whole task pleasant, — profitable also, let us 
hope, to those for whom it was undertaken. 

At the request of Mr. Young, and with his cooperation, I have 
attempted in what follows to outhne the method of this volume. 
The introduction on the Principles of Poetry aims to answer the 
questions that inevitably arise when poetry is the subject of dis- 
cussion, and to give the questioner a grasp upon the essentials 
necessary to appreciation and to the formation of an independent 
judgment. Hence the discussion of the relation^of art to nature, 
and of literature to art ; of poetry to literature, and of verse and 
prose to poetry ; of the creative or imaginative expression in poetry 
proper, and of its association with rhetoric and logic ; of rhythm 
and metre, melody, harmony, and structural form in verse, and the 
relation of all these to the organic principles of speech ; of the 
kinds of poetry, ballad and epic, reflective and descriptive recital, 
lyric, elegy, and ode, drama, pastoral and idyl, satire and philo- 
sophical poem, and the aesthetic conditions precedent to and 
attendant upon each in turn ; finally, of poetic tests and of the 
terminology of such criticism as the general reader is likely to con- 
sider or apply. This portion of the book should be mastered by 
the teacher, and retailed to younger pupils as occasion offers and 
discretion dictates. By the more advanced student it should be 
read, as a whole, sometime during the course, for it presents a 
system ; and it should be applied continually in the appraisement 
of poems as they are studied. 

The chapters on the Progress of English Poetry aim to focus 
in one study the theory, history, and practice of the art. Some 
years ago it was customary in school, and too frequently in col- 
lege, to teach a catalogue of names and dates and barren biog- 
raphies under the style of History of Literature, — Httle attention 
being paid to the masterpieces of prose and poetry that gave the 
names, dates, and biographies a raiso7t d''cij-e. Yesterday the pen- 
dulum had swung almost to the other extreme and Doctor Syn- 
taxes, in search of the " pedagogesque," not infrequently would 
light upon High School pupils, and graduates, too, who displayed 
commendable familiarity with The Ancient Mariner or Lycidas, 



X PREFACE 

the Elegy in a Country Churchyard or The Rape of the Lock, but 
had not the vaguest idea of the Hves or periods of the respective 
authors. Burns, Wordsworth, Milton, Pope, Chaucer, and Spen- 
ser might all have been contemporaries in the latter half of the 
nineteenth century, for all the rising generation cared. The 
unwarranted and absurd reduction of the spelling used by authors 
of widely separate age to a common level of modernity was partly 
to blame ; but more still, the lack of all attempt on the part of 
those in educational authority to connect our poetry with the 
social and historical conditions from which it springs. 

As a corrective to these one-sided tendencies none but the most 
important poets are here represented or even mentioned. These 
and their poems have been grouped in the literary periods to 
which they successively belong. The account of each author has 
been introduced by a more general account of the characteristics 
and tendencies of his age ; and, in the special criticism of the 
poems by which he is represented (whether in the text or the 
Notes), consideration has been given not only to his personal and 
historical conditions, but to the relation of his work to poetic 
principles and the development of national literature. It will, 
naturally, be found necessary, when dealing with High School 
pupils, to read the poems in order of simplicity — as outlined 
below. But even so, the reading of the biographies concerned 
should precede the reading of the poem ; and so far as possible 
the literary and historical period should be characterized. At the 
end of the course, — say during the last term of the senior year, 
— the history should be read in review from beginning to end, 
and supplemented by some larger treatise on the development 
of English literature ; its relation to social and political history, 
and the history of literary types. For the cultivation of the his- 
torical sense is no less important than that of the aesthetic, the 
moral, the spiritual. Without the former the latter are out of 
alignment. 

While this book attempts to cover as much as possible of the 
poetry — save the Shakespearian drama, the epic, and the metri- 
cal romance, of which numerous excellent editions already exist — 
required for admission, not to one, but to all of our American 
colleges or universities, it has also included such other poems 



PREFACE xi 

as are both representative of their literary periods and necessary 
to the constitution of an introductory course in English master- 
pieces. As in the historical sketch only the greatest authors are 
mentioned, so in the poetical collection only the best poems are 
included. And, except in two instances, the poems in their integ- 
rity. The Faerie Queene and Childe Harold are not required for 
entrance to any American college at the present time ; but, since 
no reader can escape the imputation of ignorance who has not 
tasted of their waters, we furnish a nipperkin of each, in hope 
that deeper draughts may yet be drained from the springs them- 
selves. Sir Launfal, although the work of an American, is printed 
here for the convenience of the student ; but the theme and treat- 
ment are such that it readily finds a place beside the other poems 
of chivalry here included. It contributes also to the history of 
English poetry in general. That the Commemoration Ode and 
Whittier's Sjioio-Bound have not been included is due merely to 
the accident that they are not yet, in the commercial sense, pubhc 
property. 

The texts are as nearly as possible what their authors have given 
us. In the matter of spelling we have followed the practice of 
Professor Hales in his excellent collection of Longer English 
Poems, and of later editors — the best of the present generation. 
This we have done at the expense of some little trouble to our- 
selves, but with a very clear notion of what we were about. In 
the alteration of a text, even in the minutest particular, questions 
of historical and moral propriety are involved. The orthography 
of Chaucer is part of the historical characteristic of his writings. 
Nobody nowadays would think of altering it unless he were pre- 
paring a popular edition of the poems ; but then he would also 
alter the language, omitting obsolete words and paraphrasing those 
that were difficult of understanding. In short, he would sacrifice 
the historical flavor and much of the literary reality in order to 
produce a text that might be immediately intelligible. Such an 
editor would succeed in producing a literary composite ; but the 
result would not be Chaucer, nor Spenser, nor would it reflect the 
age and atmosphere of either — a Chaucer in top-hat and patent 
leathers, perhaps, or a Spenser in tuxedo. We are not issuing a 
second-hand semblance of any of our poets. The exact texts of 



xii PREFACE 

Shakespeare, Milton, Dryden, Pope, Gray, Goldsmith, Burns, are 
just as necessary to the appreciation of their historical flavor as 
are exact diction and orthography to the appreciation of Chaucer 
and Spenser. Upon historical accuracy depends moral propriety, 
in a large degree, in matters of literature. To make a poet of a 
previous generation look like one of to-day is to place his views 
of life in a light relatively false : to lead readers to expect of this 
modernly apparelled gentleman the sentiments of our modern age. 
The archaic spelling not only helps to preserve the flavor of the 
original and of the period of its production ; it constantly suggests 
interesting truths regarding the development of the language. It 
is, moreover, after the time of Chaucer and Spenser, not appre- 
ciably harder to decipher than the orthography of to-day. For 
the child whose spelling becomes confused in the process, we are 
moved with pity. For such doubtless will be designed Spelling 
Reformatories, in the equilibrated future, where they and their 
sympathetic sponsors may avoid the inconsistencies of life. As I 
have elsewhere said we are so much afraid of wringing the withers 
of memory, nowadays, that in most children the memory has 
grown too soft for saddhng. 

In the Notes at the end of the volume the attempt has been 
made to keep in mind a few definite considerations. First, Notes 
are for the student and should be strictly practical. Since they 
will, for the most part, be used by young people, they have been 
made on the basis of actual experience in the class room. They 
aim to give nothing but what the student can use ; to leave out 
all that will not directly aid him in understanding and appreciat- 
ing the poem. Hence comments in the way of theory, whether 
philological or critical, have been so far as possible avoided. Sec- 
ond, Notes should clear up difficulties. Though inspiration and 
enjoyment are doubtless the chief ends of poetry, they can be 
attained only if the reader understand the thought of the poet 
and his art, and, therefore, the words by which these are conveyed. 
Third, Notes should not tell the student 7vhat he may reasonably 
be expected to find out for himself. Explanations are given only 
when they cannot with readiness and economy be obtained from 
the ordinary books of reference. There should be within the 
reach of every pupil at least the following manuals : an English 



PREFACE Xlll 

dictionary, such as Webster's Internatiorial, The Standard or The 
Century, or a good abridgment for his own desk, such as Web- 
ster's Academic ; a dictionary of classical names and myths, or 
some complete manual of mythology, such as Gayley's Classic 
Myths in English Literature; a Bible, if possible with a concord- 
ance; and a good History of English Literature with which to 
supplement the outline given in this book. The information 
easily to be found in these the editors have tried not to duplicate 
here. The Table of Poets and Sovereigns which precedes the 
chapters in this volume on the Progress of Poetry will be helpful 
in determining questions of relative chronology. Fourth, Notes 
should be adapted to the requirements of pupil and poem, Chau- 
cer and Burns, with their textual peculiarities, need notes entirely 
different from Milton and Pope with their allusive character, or 
Wordsworth and Browning with their subtlety of thought. The 
pupil of lower grade requires a kind of help different from that 
demanded by his seniors. Some of the simpler poems here 
have accordingly been annotated, not with few notes because they 
are simple, but with ample notes because presumably the pupil 
who will study them is young. Fifth, Notes should be sugges- 
tive. The inability to realize what he ought to see in a poem, 
or to recognize what it really contains, is probably the chief draw- 
back with the immature reader. The teacher during class reci- 
tation, of course, bears this fact in mind ; but the pupil will always 
gain from the recitation in proportion as he is prepared for it. 
The editors, therefore, offer no apology for the numerous directive 
questions and suggestions of the notes. It is hoped that they 
may prove a real advantage to pupil and teacher. Sixth, Notes 
are valuable only as a means to an end, — that the reader may 
gain the greatest possible pleasure and inspiration from the 
poems themselves. In most cases he should endeavor to get all 
he can from the text before resorting to the notes at all. Crutches 
are worse than useless where one finds himself able to walk with- 
out them. 

The order in which these poems are studied will of course vary 
with the maturity of the student and the judgment of the teacher. 
Advanced students and general readers will naturally take histories 
and texts in their chronological order. But beginners who are 



XIV PREFACE 

pursuing this study as one of several, during the four years of a 
High School course, will probably find the following sequence, 
suggested by practical experience with High School pupils, much 
more suitable : 

First Year. — The Prisoner of Chillon, Horatius, The For- 
saken Merman, The Coiter''s Saturday Night, Ta?n <?' Shatiter, 
The Deserted Village. 

Second Year. — The Prologue to the Catiterbury Tales, the 
selection from The Faerie Queene, L' Allegro, II Penseroso, Gray's 
Elegy, The Ancient Mariner. 

Third Year. — Alexander's Feast, The Rape of the Lock, the 
selections from Shelley, the selections from Childe Harold, Sir 
Lautifal, the Idylls of the King, Rugby Chapel. 

Fourth Year. — Comus, Lycidas, and the sonnets of Milton, 
the selections from Wordsworth, the selections from Keats, the 
rest of Tennyson, the selections from Browning, the rest of Arnold. 
A general review of the principles of poetry, and of poems and 
authors in their relation to the historical account here given of 
the progress of poetry, should complete the course. 

With regard to exercises in the class room a few words may be 
serviceable : 

1. Purpose. The aim of the teacher in dealing with master- 
pieces of poetry should be to develop in his pupils the habit of 
observing closely and keenly the phenomena of natural and human 
existence, with a view to understanding their meaning as parts 
of an organized and living whole ; to equip the mind with the 
knowledge resulting from the imaginative treatment of things, 
that is, with the riches of poetry, — and to stimulate it to healthy 
imaginative power ; to cultivate a sense for that which is expres- 
sive in nature and in literature, and a desire to clothe one's own 
best thought, if possible, in true and beautiful form. Finally, to 
emphasize the verities of life and the laws of conduct. 

2. Method. As in all study of English classics, the lessons 
assigned should be not arbitrary and inconsequential fragments, 
but integral parts of the poem ; and the interest of the pupil 
should be so aroused as to insure his reading the whole poem out 
of school before its analysis in the class room is completed. 



PREFACE ■ XV 

{a) Introductory : The study of the poem proper should be 
prefaced by investigation into the life and times of the poet, his 
place and the position of the poem in the development of English 
literature, the social and historical features of the times and per- 
sons that the poem characterizes, and the geography of the 
scenes that serve as a background. These items of information 
may be suppHed in three ways : by a study of the history con- 
tained in this volume ; by informal but carefully prepared talks, 
in which the instructor imparts the results of his reading on the 
subject ; and by gradual and more detailed work, in the way of 
reports prepared by members of the class. 

As general guides may be mentioned : Stopford Brooke's Eng- 
lish Literature, Saintsbury's Short History, and Thomas Arnold's 
Manual of English Literature, Such works as Morley and Tyler's 
Manual of English Literature, Taine's History of English Litera- 
ture, Morley's exhaustive work, English Writers, Courthope's His- 
tory of E?2glish Poetry, Ward's Eiiglish Poets, the History of English 
Literature in four volumes by Brooke, Saintsbury, Gosse, and Dow- 
den, Garnett and Gosse's English Literature, and the English 
Men of Letters series, should be in the High School library for 
purposes of reference. Chronological outlines and lists of collat- 
eral reading will often be of value in orienting the teacher ; such, 
for instance, as Emery's Notes on English Literature and Ryland's 
Chrotiological Outlines of English Literature. But it must be 
remembered that text-book information about authors or master- 
pieces, if unaccompanied by acquaintance with the works them- 
selves, is worth little to the learner. Only those dates should be 
emphasized that are of evident import ; they should be given in 
their sequence and should find a permanent abode in the memory 
of the pupil. 

{b) General View : Considerable parts of the masterpiece, or, 
if possible, the whole masterpiece, having been assigned for study ' 
at home, pupils should, in recitation, produce orally the prelimi- 
nary information described under {a), and outline clearly and con- 
cisely the argument or narrative of the poem. Each should, then, 
indicate and try to explain the passages that he found difficult to 
understand, referring to the class what he cannot explain. Finally, 
each having pointed out the Unes and stanzas that he most likes, 



XVI PREFACE 

the passages preferred by consensus of opinion (of teacher as 
well as of class) should be marked to be committed to memory 
and recited in class. The instructor should encourage such reci- 
tation, even to the extent of making it optional with certain other 
desirable work. 

{c) Analysis : Next, taking up the poem in detail, the class 
should examine minutely the obsolete and unusual words, phrases, 
and constructions, and explain the literary and historical allusions, 
noting the poetic charm and significance of each. The pupils 
should also be required to elucidate and classify the more impor- 
tant figures, — poetic, rhetorical, etc., — and to comment upon 
their force, clearness, and suitability. 

From images, the transition will be natural to the rhythmic 
expression of the imaginative product. First, the rhythm should 
be discussed, its nature, swift or slow, heavy or light, involved or 
simple, monotonous or varied ; second, the tonality of the verse 
and its appropriateness to the movement of the thought, emotion, 
or action ; third, the style and technical designation of the metre 
and of the stanza, and the fitness of the metrical form. Many 
lines should be scanned at home ; many read in class to illustrate 
irregularities or peculiarities of verse, and to cultivate the sense of 
rhythm. Continual reference should be made to the Principles 
of Poetry. 

It is wise that as a mere matter of option for work out of school, 
or for occasio)ial c\2^%%-\\Qx\, pupils be encouraged to prepare verses 
of their own on simple subjects, in the metre of the poem under 
consideration. The feeling of rhythmic sequence and the appre- 
ciation of verse-forms can in no other way, so surely, be developed. 
For the instructor, an excellent guide to English versification is 
Professor Alden's E?iglish Verse. 

The pupils familiar with both thought and form of the master- 
piece may occasionally be required to reproduce in their own lan- 
guage the passages in which poetic diction most difi"ers from that 
of prose. This exercise may be conducted orally or by means of 
carefully written paraphrases of the original. It may, at times, 
consist of an accurate representation of the thought, description, 
or narrative, and, at times, of an expansion of the poet's ideas 
according to the best judgment and taste of the pupil. But the 



PREFACE XVU 

teacher must always remember that there cannot be more than 
one sympathetic expression of a poetic thought; or, in other 
words, that each shade of imaginative thought, feeUng, and action 
has its appf'opriate hterary garb. If you destroy or vary the garb, 
you destroy or vary the impression conveyed. Paraphrasing, there- 
fore, should be employed, if at all, in the schools, not as an insult 
to the poet's intelligence, formative skill, and inspiration, but as a 
necessary, though unfortunate, concession to the inexperience of 
the pupil, as a means to the removal of that necessity, and as an 
exercise in translation, which, when pupils study Greek and Latin, 
has little reason for existence. In general, therefore, the advanced 
pupil should be called upon to paraphrase only when he does not 
grasp the thought or appreciate the figure. Rather than alter the 
poet's language, and mutilate the conception, he should commit 
the language to memory, understanding that to change the original 
is a crime against the laws of art and of common sense. 

These remarks are by no means a protest against the paraphrase 
as a method of studying grammar, but as a method of studying 
poetry. In the composition class, the practice of paraphrasing 
prose and verse is a sure and invaluable aid in enforcing the laws 
of syntax and in fixing the interpretation of words. In the class 
that studies poetry, paraphrase is permissible only as a means of 
exposition, or as a stimulus to invention. 

Parallel with this labor of interpretation goes that of criticism, 
which is always necessary to the appreciation of art. There are 
three attitudes which the pupil should not assume in respect 
of classical poems : first, that of regarding them with apathy ; sec- 
ond, that of reverencing them without discrimination ; third, that 
of attacking them in a supercilious manner, and with a carping or 
Philistine spirit. 

Patient deliberation and a regard for authority are requisite to 
criticism. While the pupil may not be sufficiently mature to im- 
pugn the verdict by which the poem is declared a classic, he may 
still be called upon to consider carefully the emotions which the 
poem has awakened in him, and to inquire into the manner of 
their awakening. He should, in other words, study the means by 
which the poet has tried to translate us, for a season, from the dust 
of this world to the liberal atmosphere of art. He should ask 



xviii " PRE FA CE 

whether the poet has reproduced nature with fidelity, has planned 
probable situations, described reasonable characters, portrayed 
true emotions, exercised wisdom, generosity, and justice in his 
conception of conduct, chosen the fitting imagery and the inevita- 
ble rhythm, welded the parts into a flawless unity, and transfigured 
the whole with the light that is enduring. 

(^) Review : During the study of the poem the pupil should 
keep a note-book, in which are entered, under appropriate head- 
ings, passages illustrating qualities of style and thought, as well as 
information gathered concerning the social, historical, and literary 
relations of the poem and the poet. This information will be use- 
ful in the final characterization of the poem and in composition 
of essays on special features of the work. After several poems 
have been read, the note-book should be used as affording mate- 
rials for comparative study of subjects, methods, and styles. 

Upon the instructor devolves the task of weaving the strands of 
investigation into something of a web. He may well conclude the 
study of each poem with a brief summary of its qualities y>v;// his 
point of view, a comparison with other poems of the same kind, 
and a statement of its historical and literary importance. 

We cannot send this book out without some expression of our 
obligation to all who have helped in its equipment ; but especially 
to Professor Saintsbury of the University of Edinburgh, whose 
fresh and readable Shorter History of English Literature we have 
quoted with some frequency ; to Professor Skeat of Cambridge for 
his edition of Chaucer ; to Professor Hales for various suggestions 
adopted from his admirable edition of Longer English Poems ; 
to Masson's Milton, Bell's Comtis, and Maccallum's Tennyson's 
Idylls and the Arthurian Stofy. To other commentaries and 
editions of classics we are of course indebted, but they are too 
numerous to mention in detail. 

CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY. 
Berkeley, September loth, 1904. 



CONTENTS 



INTRODUCTION 

THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 



1. Nature and Art 

2. The Purposes of the Artist 

3. The Classification of the Arts . 

4. Literature in General 

5. Poetry Proper .... 

6. The Creative Expression . 

7. The Rhythm of Verse : Foot and Metre 

8. Tonality in Verse : Melody 

9. Tonality in Verse : Harmony; Rhyme 

10. The Larger Units of Verse : Stanzaic and 

11. The Kinds of Poetry 

12. The Judgment of Poetry 



Structural Forms 



A Table of English Kings and English Poets 



oppositi 



PAGE 
XXV 



xxxu 

XXXV 

xxxvi 

xxxviii 

xxxix 

1 

Ixviii 

Ixxvi 

Ixxix 

xci 

civ 



I 



ENGLISH POETRY 

PROGRESS AND MASTERPIECES 

CHAPTER L HISTORICAL BASIS 

PAGE 

The Origins of the Language i 

CHAPTER II. THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY 

The Development of the Language and the Beginning of the 

Literature e 

Geoffrey Chaucer 6 

The Prologue to the Canterlniry Tales ... . . . 8 

xix 



XX CONTENTS 

CHAPTER III. THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY 

PAGE 

The Imitators of Chaucer — The Renaissance — The Printing 

Press — The Ballad 34 

CHAPTER IV. THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY 

Part i. The Pre-Elizabethan Era 36 

Part 2. The Elizabethan Age 37 

Edmund Spenser 38 

Stanzas from the Faerie Queetie, Book I, Canto I , . 41 

Sonnet to Sir IValter Raleigh ...... 47 

Shakespeare: Sonnets xviii, xxix, xxx, lxxiii, cvi . . 48 

CHAPTER V. THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY 

Part i. The Period of Puritan Influence 51 

John Milton 52 

L' Allegro .......... 54 

// Penseroso ......... 58 

Lycidas .......... 63 

Co?nus . . . . . . . . . .69 

Sonnets : 

II. On his having arrived at the Age of Twenty- 
three 98 

XVI. To the Lord General Cromwell ... 99 

XIX. On his Blindness ...... 99 

XXII. To Mr. Cyriac Skinner (upon his blindness) . 100 

Part 2. The Age of the Restoration 100 

John Dryden loi 

Alejcander^s Feast ; or, The Power of Music . . . 103 

CHAPTER VI. THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
Part i. The Classical or Conventional School . . . ."no 

Alexander Pope 112 

77/1? Rape of the Lock : First Edition ( 1 7 1 2) . . . 115 



CONTENTS xxi 

PAGE 

Part 2. The Movement of Reaction 124 

Thomas Gray 126 

Elegy written ill a Country Churchyard . . . .128 

Oliver Goldsmith 132 

The Deserted Village 133 

Robert Burns 145 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 147 

Tarn d' Shanter . 153 

CHAPTER VII. THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 

Part i. The New Romantic Poetry 160 

William Wordsworth 161 

Lines composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey . .164 
Ode — Intimations of Immortality . . . , . 1 68 

Ode to Duty 1 74 

Sonnets : 

London, 1802 (To Milton) 176 

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1802 . 176 
" It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free " . . '177 
" The World is too much with us " . . . -177 

" Scorn not the Sonnet " 178 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge 178 

The Rime of the Ancie7it Mariner . . . . .180 

Part 2. The Poets of Social Revolt 200 

George Gordon Byron 201 

The Prisoner of Chilian 204 

Sonnet — On Chillon ....... 215 

Stanzas from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (iv, 78-80; 

139-145) 216 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 218 

Ode to the West Wind 220 

To a Skylark 223 



xxii CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Cloud 226 

To Night 229 

Part 3. A Poet of the Esthetic Transition .... 230 

John Keats 231 

The Eve of St. Agnes 232 

Ode to a Nightingale 245 

Ode on a Grecian Urn ....... 247 

La Belle Datne sans Merci 249 

Sonnets : 

On first looking into Chapman's Homer . . .251 

On the Grasshopper and Cricket ..... 251 

Part 4. The Victorian Poets -. . 252 

Thomas Babington Macaulay 253 

Horatius 254 

Alfred Tennyson 274 

CEnone 276 

The Lady of Shalott 284 

Ulysses 289 

Tithonus . 291 

Crossing the Bar . 293 

Robert Browning 294 

Llome Thoughts, from Abroad 297 

Home Thoughts, from the Sea 297 

Evelyn Hope 298 

My Last Duchess 300 

Andrea del Sarto 301 

Rabbi Ben Ezra 308 

Epilogue to Asolando 315 

Matthew Arnold 316 

The Forsaken Merman 318 

Rugby Chapel 322 

Dover Beach ......... 328 

Requiescat 329 



CONTENTS xxiii 

PAGE 

Part 5. The Poetry of Chivalry 330 

James Russell Lowell 332 

The Vision of Sir Latinfal T^i^t^ 

Tennyson's Idylls of the King 346 

Gareth and Lynette ........ 347 

Lancelot aiid Elaine ........ 388 

The Passing of Arthur .427 

Notes 441 

Index 585 



INTRODUCTION 
THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 



I. NATURE AND ART 

Poetry is one of the arts. Art exists because nature so often is not 
perfect ; and because, even when she does seem to be perfect in form or 
in color, in sound or in movement, or in the conduct of life, she is limited 
to the place and the time and the vi^itness. Either we have to leave 
that which once has pleased us or our fellow-mejj by its beauty or 
grandeur, its sublimity, tragic fitness, genial humor, or pathetic charm, 
or nature herself leaves us ; the forms with which she impressed us may 
change or cease to be, the moods with which we approached and knew 
her may visit us no more. Art helps man and nature out. It aims to 
represent nature, when imperfect, as nature apparently would like to 
represent herself; or to reproduce for man those scenes in nature, those 
events in life, to awaken those moods and moments of comprehension, 
by virtue of which he thought he once had grasped the perfect meaning 
of things, — known the exaltation of ideal delight, felt it supremely. 
Art aims, also, to express the artist's thought or experience to others, 
to communicate his feeling and its worth. 

The majesty of Mt. Shasta may not be revealed in all its aspects 
to the artist on any one particular day spent in contemplation of 
them ; the artist may not paint his picture of the mountain until after 
he has withdrawn from the land that it dominates, but the vision 
reproduced upon his canvas may still combine in one transfigured 
whole the thousand fleeting glories and fruitful suggestions gathered 
from the successive moments when his eyes rested on those heights. 
He has represented the mountain, not precisely as it is in any chang- 
ing aspect, more or less imperfect, more or less majestic, or as it may 
ever be for any one person at any one time, — but as it seemed to 
try to represent itself to him by various aspects : as it was an inspira- 
tion for him in the moods awakened and in the meaning carried away. 
So art helps nature out. It helps man out by annihilating space and 
time : by making present what is past, and building here an illusion 
of what is there. In painting or in verse art may awaken the echo 
of Roland's bugle blast, so that it again and always shall live in the 



xxvi THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

pass of Roncesvalles ; it may, in engraving, set the academic piles of 
Oxford and the Gothic towers of Westminster before the boatman on 
Canadian streams or the cowboy of New Mexico. It may, indeed, do 
more : rising above the trammels of mere fact it may build sweet villages 
of the plain, and invest them with the light that never was on sea or land ; 
it may create those who live immortal in verse and in truth, although 
they lived not actually in life : the Maiden whose purity dissipates the 
magic wiles of Comus, the burning Porphyro and Madeline '* asleep in 
lap of legends old," the Daniel come to judgment of a Shylock, the 
Knight "in mightie armes and silver shielde." 

Nature and humanity, which is part of nature, rarely reveal their inner 
meaning to him who glances for a moment upon them, and is gone. 
Not even to the lover of the meadows and the woods and mountains, 
does nature always yield her secret. Nor to the wayfarer in the slums of 
life does she always unveil the heart beating beneath its squalor. Nor to 
the detective and the prosecuting attorney does she always interpret the 
romance or the tragedy that closed its career last night in the garret or 
this morning in the wave beneath the wharf. Nature waits for her 
interpreter; for the loving and skilful hand that shall brush aside the 
dust of accidentals under which her tioie self lies; she awaits the magi- 
cian who shall touch her when she means most, — arrest her so that for 
all time she shall remain with us, most beautiful, most affecting, most 
significant. Art, therefore, consciously represents or modifies nature in 
order the better to express or suggest her meaning ; in order the better 
to preserve that aspect of nature that means most to the heart as well 
as the head of the artist. It is a re-creation of nature and all that 
nature includes, — the world about us, human life and feelings, thought 
and action, — a re-creation of these not out of the original materials, 
but out of materials more easy to manipulate, marble or sound or words, 
and by ways instinct with imagination, ways that appeal to our emotions 
and set our minds to work like artists creating over again what the poet 
or sculptor or musician has tried to utter. 

How Art modifies Nature. — Nature may be modified by man in 
two ways. First, for purposes of utility, as by the carpenter or black- 
smith or machinist, — and the result of their activity we call handicraft; 
and second, for purposes not practical but ideal, which determine the 
methods and the aim of art. 

The elements of nature which may be modified for the purpose of 
producing art are somewhat as follows : First, unclassified material, 
such as the features of the landscape, — earth, trees, water; second, 
material in the mass, which may be selected and adapted to express 
the artist's idea, such as wood, metal, ivory, clay, stone ; third, color 
elements in matter, such as pigments, sepia, ochre, white lead ; fourth, 



NATURE AND ART XXVll 

matter in vibration, such as strings and membranes under tension, 
metals, wood, and columns of air, producing sound ; fifth, movements 
of the human body, from which may be produced the ancient, stately 
art of dancing — that is, choristic — and the imitation of physical charac- 
teristics, as upon the stage ; and sixth, speech, and the symbols of speech. 

As already said, elements of nature may be modified to produce a 
result which is not directly or evidently useful, but is otherwise valuable 
in the form of art. How are they modified? First, in their form, or 
movement, or order, or proportion ; as, for instance, when the vibra- 
tion of the string or of a column of air is skilfully manipulated so as 
to produce a regulated succession or scale of sounds. This modifica- 
tion of the material is r/iyt/iifiic, and according to a law. In nature 
there is the simple column of air, as in the reed through which you 
blow or the string held taut between two points. The sound produced 
from reed or string has in itself possibilities of measure according to 
rule ; but the rhythm does not appear evidently or regularly until the 
human mind applies itself to the reduction of these possibilities, these 
vibrations in accordance with some purpose manifesting itself by the 
recurrence of pitch or intensity or length. Now this regulated move- 
ment or rhytJuii — for such it is — will take various forms according 
to the material in which it finds manifestation. It may appear as 
harmony in the chord, or periodic recurrence in the verse of poetry, or 
melody in the strain of music, or proportion in the outlines of a statue 
or a cathedral ; in fact, as unity in the variety of details, unity iiiling 
the parts of the mass, law fulfilling itself in the modes of that which 
appeared to be unregulated freedom, and in the adoption of sufficient 
material, and not more than sufficient nor less, to the end designed. 

In the second place, the elements of nature may be manipulated in 
iiintation of natural objects ; one natural object may be manipulated in 
imitation of another, as a stone is chiselled in order to imitate the human 
form or the form of an animal. This process of modifying nature we 
find frequently employed in such poetry as attempts to reproduce natural 
sounds. We find it, also, in the lower kinds of music, in music which 
represents or reproduces the fact, — as of the concourse of human beings 
in the well-known Carnival of Venice, where shrieks of joy, laughter, and 
surprise are heard, and the squeaking of the wry-necked fife. The result 
of slavish imitation is art of a vulgar kind, such as delights the audience 
in a music hall ; it is the art of an unidealized portrait, or of the snap- 
shot taken by the kodak in the hands of the amateur. 

Rhythm. — Rhythm and imitation are modes necessarily at the basis 
of all art. Rhythm, because it is the measure, whether appearing as 
regular recurrence, or proportion, or harmony, of all movement and 
form, of all sights and sounds, thoughts, actions, and feelings that 



XXviii THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

art can imitate. Imitation, because, as we shall soon see, without it art 
could have no root in reality, and imagination would not exist. 

In all motion,, whether of the stars in their courses or of the earth 
about the sun and the moon about the earth, in all succession of day 
and night, of the seasons, of flood tide and ebb, of waves, whether 
of sea, or sound, or light, the mind of man discerns an order, — the 
recurrence of an emphasis at regular intervals, — an order, in short, that 
rules the manner of the movement. This is rhythm. It is the law 
by which all things flow, the principle by which many various happen- 
ings or particulars in any series are bound together and related to a 
common purpose. It is not only the unity which we observe running 
through a variety of external movement, it is also the principle by which 
our senses are able to group the various particulars and arrange them in 
order with a common meaning. And that is because the rhythms of 
the world outside us affect the waking and the sleeping, the life and 
growth of man himself. We live in the rhythm of the universe because 
we are part of it ; and if we fulfil the purpose of our being, if we exercise 
our functions to the best result, it is because we are living in harmony 
with the courses of nature : have reduced to a minimum the friction 
between our own way and the great way of nature, by observing rhythm, 
by "keeping time." It is inherent in man's nature to "keep time.'' 
We are so constituted in body that alternation of effort, recurrence at 
regular intervals, are the law of our everyday existence : rest follows 
activity, dilatation of muscles succeeds contraction, — pulsation, breath- 
ing, walking, speech, — all are rhythmical. 

The mind, too, acts rhythmically. Now we are attentive to an object ; 
in a moment the attention flies to some other interest, then back again 
to the former thought. Flying and perching and flying ever again. 
But every succession of sights or sounds, of feelings or thoughts, that 
affects us we involuntarily divide into a number of smaller groups, each 
of which has its own emphatic and subordinate elements ; and the law of 
emphasis is the same throughout. We find in the series a recurrence of 
emphasis, whether of brightness or loudness or intensity or significance, 
at regular intervals, — a rhythm. And until we have found the rhythm 
in, or given a rhythm to, any series of happenings, it has no meaning 
for us. Into the monotonous and unmeaning clack, clack, clack of the 
railway carriage as it moves you may read a rhythmical cllckety-clack, 
clickety -clack : I may read click-a-click-a-click-a-cUck ; or perhaps we 
may agree. Our agreement as to the rhythmical group into which the 
sounds fall depends upon whether we are similarly attuned. In either 
case the individual demands a recurrence at regular intervals of an 
accented sound, which shall diversify and relieve the monotonous 
succession of level beats that he actually hears. This relation of the 



NATURE AND ART XXIX 

accented sound to the unaccented constitutes the principle of each 
rhythmical group, and the principle or rhythm remains the same for 
all the groups in any series which your ear has made artistic. Now 
having read a rhythm into or out of the beats, you will unconsciously 
proceed to read a meaning out of the rhythm, a "hop-step-and-jump" 
or a " dot and carry one " of motion, or perhaps even a verse of more 
or less sense or nonsense, such as : — 

" Clickety-clack, 
Sit on your back, 
I'm the tornado that gobbles the track ; " 

or a song like that of Kipling's Empire State Express: — 

" She climb upon der shteeple 
Und she frighten all der people 
Singin" michnai — ghignai — shtingal ! Yah ! Yah ! " 

Rhythm is a principle guiding not only the motion of substance and 
action, feeling and thought, but the measure of form as well. The 
name is not ordinarily applied to the principle in all these manifes- 
tations, but it might be. In the world of form rhythm appears as 
symmetry or proportion ; it is the harmony of curves which we admire 
in the statue of Venus of Milo ; it is the harmony of form and of 
color in Rafael's painting of the Sistine Madonna ; it is the propor- 
tion of mass and pillar and arch and spire in the Cathedral of Milan. 
These partake quite as fully of the nature of rhythm as the unified 
variety of tones, measures, chords, and motives in HandePs oratorio 
of The Creation, or the swinging phrases with their recurring accents, 
and the progressive stanzas, of Wordsworth's Ode ofi Immortality. 
Rhythm of the feelings shows itself in the passage from elation to 
depression, from ecstatic enjoyment to satiety, from satiety to apathy, 
from laughter to tears. Our thoughts, too, — not only do they move 
rhythmically toward the conclusion that they would reach, but each 
is in itself a rhythmical record of the relation between him who thinks 
and that of which he thinks. The rhythm of family is in the love that 
holds it together; the rhythm of action is in the jxirpose that Tnks 
desire to attainment. Rhythm is the law of the Presence 

" In the mind of man : 
A motion and a spirit, that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
And rolls through all things." 

By rhythm poetry aims to represent the law according to which 
nature moves and lives ; it tries to catch the accent of the whirlwind or 
the storm and to reproduce that in the sweep and thunder of the poetic 



XXX THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

line ; to find measured expression for " beauty born of murmuring sound, 
and thoughts that He too deep for tears." 

Rhythm is a fundamental mode of art, not merely because it aims to 
catch and reproduce the accent of movement and form, and of the very 
being that is imitated by art, but because it regulates, also, all com- 
munication between individual and individual, because it is the common 
measure in which people march together, act together, and above all, 
feel together. It is the common pulse of the crowd, which, set to 
beating by song, or speech, or strain of music, or sight of beauty, or 
wave of heroism or of fear, moves the individuals in sympathy, makes 
their hearts vibrate as one. Art, by virtue of that same mode of move- 
ment and of form, by rhythm consciously applied, orders and empha- 
sizes the rhythms of nature and oiTers to us her semblances so set to a 
tune that not one, but all, may feel and understand, — is therefore a 
common benefactor. Since this tune, moreover, is that which all nat- 
urally sing, art is an interpreter, communicator, mediator. By her 
means, men, as members of society, are most readily brought to appre- 
ciate the universal, ideal and abiding characteristics of mankind. In 
the family, in business, in politics, and in religion the interests and 
beliefs of individuals continually and necessarily clash ; but because 
art depends upon the consent of many to the common measure, the 
common proportion or rhythm, the enjoyment derived from her is not 
a matter of selfish interest. Those who enjoy, enjoy the accepted 
rhythm ; those who do not, are not in the artistic or poetic mood. 
Consequently mankind has from the beginning acknowledged that 
taste or feeling ; that is to say, tlie general taste or feeling, and not 
judgment, that is to say, the individual judgment, is the arbiter in 
art. But mankind concedes that the individual has a right to his pref- 
erence as to whether he shall join the artistic mood of the crowd or 
not. "Concerning tastes," the proverb goes, "it is useless to dispute." 
Not " concerning taste " as generally approved, but " tastes " of indi- 
viduals who stand aloof. Concerning the accepted taste it is unneces- 
sary to dispute ; concerning individual tastes useless, — because the work 
of art, the painting, oratorio, statue, colonnade, or poem is, after all, not 
nature but art ; not an accidental or merely practical, but an ideal reality ; 
not dependent for its success upon its ability to convince, but to delight ; 
not limited. in its appeal to one person or coterie or age, but the more 
enjoyable in proportion as it may be enjoyed by the more who see or 
hear it. For art is eminently social. It teaches its lesson, if lesson it 
teach, by moving alike those who will be moved — harps whose strings 
are accorded to its rhythm. The artist enhances his own joys and abates 
his own sorrows by communicating them : that is one impulse for pro- 
ducing art. Another is that he desires to express himself in terms more 



NATURE AND ART XXxi 

widely and swiftly and surely understood than the practical ; more sym- 
pathetically understood — therefore terms aesthetic and ideal. An- 
other is that he wishes to people the world with creations, with images 
made in his own likeness, each presenting in apparently real but actu- 
ally ideal form some aspect of himself, so that it may make acquaint- 
ances on its own account and perpetuate his personality. For all these 
reasons art presupposes an audience and a community of appreciation. 
If the rhythm of the masterpiece does not sweep you out of the consid- 
eration of practical and particular details into the realm of enjoyment, 
then for you it is not a work of art. Since you do not talk the same 
language with those who speak of it as a semblance — as a day-dream 
quicker with glory than the day with gold — you are not speaking a 
language that the lovers of that art can understand. You are regard- 
ing it as an actuality, better or worse than the world has already offered 
for such and such a price, and if you criticise it, your criticism is worth 
while only from the business point of view, not as criticism of art. 

Imitation. — Imitation also is a mode fundamental and necessary to 
art and to its power over mankind. By its means, man makes his earli- 
est attempts to communicate to others the experience of his senses, 
and by practising it he ultimately discovers that he can create some- 
thing new, something that his senses may in no particular time or place 
have entirely experienced. Even when imitation is slavish, it works 
with a certain originality, for in copying an object it generally copies 
that object in a material diff'erent from the actual. When primitive man 
desires to make a representation of some new monster, he employs 
not a similar material, save in so far as he imitates in his person, by 
gesture; he betakes himself to reproduction in materials foreign to 
the monster — to charcoal and cave walls, and so bylines and curves 
he perpetuates his experience in a medium that is original and a form 
that is, if in ever so slight a degree, imaginative. He imitates, but 
at the same time translates. When imitation has outgrown its swad- 
dling clothes, when it ceases to copy, as the savage and the child 
would, exactly what it has seen or heard or felt, and begins to modify, 
select, improvise, it assumes the robe and wand of a magician : it is no 
longer realism ; it is romance. It reproduces no longer the dupHcate of 
the original, the memory image : not so much the likeness of the ex- 
ternals that were seen as of the mood, quality, and essence of the 
impression made upon the beholder ; it reproduces not so much for 
the sake of recording or communicating a particular happening as of 
creating, for the sheer pleasure of creating, a semblance with life of 
its own and associations in an imaginary world — an embodiment all 
the more entertaining and real because not fettered to that which was 
observed and registered in memory. The sordid Rome that Byron 



XXxii THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

saw becomes for him the Niobe of Nations ; the liberty trodden under 
foot is enthroned — the eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind. Imi- 
tation is transfigured by creative power until it presents an embodi- 
ment not of externals alone but of thoughts and emotions, of that 
which has no physical form, but lives in symbols that suggest it. Of 
Imitation, careful about much serving, the beautiful daughter Imagi- 
nation is sprung, to be in her turn the creative mother of Art. Mem- 
ory fades and the records of it, but Imagination revels in ever reviving 
and richer colors. 

Structure. — Besides the mode of imitation (which has in view the 
object to be represented) and the mode of rhythm (which is the regula- 
tion by mind of the natural movement or measure of the object rep- 
resented), there is also another mode by which art proceeds in its 
manipulation of nature, namely, the structural. This varies with the 
material in which the art works, and with the conditions and laws of 
the particular material. The architect and the sculptor must comply 
with the conditions of the mass that they use : the free-stone, the gran- 
ite, the marble, wood, brass, or iron. The painter must consider the 
nature and possibilities of his pigments and the surface on which they 
are to be laid. The musician and the poet must study and conform to 
the qualities of sound : one as pure and telling its own tale, the other as 
formed into words and symbols. 

2. THE PURPOSES OF THE ARTIST 

We are now ready to understand the purposes for which the artist 
thus modifies nature. He must make his attempt with one or more 
of three ends in view, to display its structure, to present its meaning, or 
to represent its objects. And if he succeed in all of these attempts, he 
is the master-artist : craftsman, seer, and creator in one. 

Structural Art. — The artist modifies nature structurally in order to 
reveal or interpret the significance of the material in which he works, 
significance which in a state of nature had been unobserved. He liber- 
ates, emphasizes, and adjusts the properties of his material. The stone, 
just quarried, appears devoid of symmetry or interest, but the archi- 
tect who will use it knows better. He regards it as a something 
within which two forces are locked in conflict, — an individuality held 
together by the equipoise of the gravity and the rigidity within it. The 
force of gravity would tend to draw the several molecules downward; 
the force of rigidity would tend to an opposite effect ; the two forces 
strike a balance and the stone results. As a rock beetles above you 
in its natural state and place, you do not usually regard it as a petrified 
battleground. But the architect who would work with that material 
must so modify it as to utilize the antagonistic forces each in turn ; 



THE PURPOSES OF THE ARTIST xxxiii 

must so manipulate the stone as to bring out the essential balance be- 
tween its upward and downward proclivities. He first gives free play 
to its rigidity, in column and parallel column. When the fitting time 
comes, he brings the other proclivity of the stone, its gravity, into 
play : the columns curve toward each other, and gradually the arch 
appears which finally culminates in the keystone. You derive pleasure 
from the contemplation of this artifice in stone because, even though 
without reflection, you have beheld the manipulation and composition 
in regulated order of the two forces that rule. So also the engineer in 
water, arranging his artificial Niagaras, brings into harmony or balance 
the fluidity and gravity of the material with which he works. Every 
art, music and poetry like the rest, manipulates nature so as to reveal 
the significance of the material, whether mass, color, sound, or symbol 
of speech, in which it works. Poetry, of course, could not result from 
the use of the structural method alone. Nursery rhymes, and nonsense 
verses of great beauty, like Lewis Carroll's — 

" 'Twas brillig and the slithy toves 
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe," 

show how far structural art may go unaided in the realm of language. 

Presentative Art. — The artist may, in the second place, present 
some idea, principle, or characteristic, not of the material used, but of 
the mind using ; that is to say, he may present the nature of him- 
self. This he does by suggestion, using the materials in such a way 
as to awaken in the beholder or listener his own moods or imagin- 
ings. If music confined itself to the previous method of construction, 
erecting palaces of sound by seizing the underlying principles and 
varieties of stress, quantity, pitch, and quality, harmonizing them in the 
chord, and prolonging them in pleasant but meaningless sequences, it 
would be of a merely structural or mathematical nature. But it does 
much more than this, when by means of the architecture of sound it 
suggests moods of the human soul such as the musician himself has 
felt, and which each auditor may interpret according to his acquaintance 
with the art or his kinship with the mood. In this case the presentative 
method makes use of the structural method, and so far as it may please, of 
imitation as well ; but for higher purposes than either alone could achieve. 
The rhythmic qualities of structure are subordinated to a meaning ; the 
imitation of natural sounds, if it exist, has become ideal and creative in 
proportion as it has become imaginative. So in all art, — in lyric poetry, 
for instance, where the singer indulges not in mere imitations or de- 
scriptions of natural sights or sounds but in semblances of them, as 
hints and images to express his moods and the aspects of life that 
have appealed to him. He advances still further in the poetic ascent 



XXXIV THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

when he succeeds in presenting views of life rather than of his personal 
mood. Then he begins to be a seer, a prophet. In this richer and 
nobler sense, the Tinterti Abbey and the Ode on Immortality are pre- 
sentative. They are the climax of presentative poetry, poetry where 
self passes out of sight, and life finds a spiritual interpreter. Much 
of our best lyrical poetry, however, is purely presentative of the mood 
of the singer : for instance, Shelley's — 

" I arise from dreams of thee 

In the first sweet sleep of night," 

where the winds and stars and champak odors exist merely to reflect 
a personal passion ; or Burns's — 

" Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon 
How can ye bloom sae fair." 

Such poetry may be very beautiful, but it is prone to fall into what 
Ruskin styles \\\^ pathetic fallacy, because nature is wrested out of her 
rights to a seeming sympathy with man's little joys and griefs. 

Representative Art. — As art, when it is merely structural or 
presentative, is not at its highest, so also when it depends upon 
imitation alone. Poetry, for instance, that should give a literal de- 
scription of a butterfly, or a mere catalogue of events, would hardly be 
poetry. But when imitation rises above the servile copy and represents 
life as seen and constracted imaginatively, it has reached the goal pre- 
destined. The representative artist modifies the actual object : he tells 
us not all that it was, but what it is to him, or might be. He gives 
us, by a few master strokes, the impression which nature made upon 
him, the meaning that nature had for him ; he proceeds by choosing, 
re-collecting, and combining characteristic particulars which reproduce 
no one definite original, but a creative image, a typical representative of 
the salient ideas or qualities that he desires to portray. If Andrea del 
Sarto paints Madonnas from his wife without idealizing her, — in so 
far he fails. Michelangelo reproduces the universal, not the particular, 
beauty; Rafael, the eternal. motherhood. Shakespeare does not derive 
his. Brutus wholly from the historical personage of that name, but from 
him and others who possessed, or might have possessed, similar spirit or 
qualities. He does not in his Macbeth or Othello record events as they 
came to his hand in Holinshed or Cinthio ; he selects, reorders, com- 
bines, constructs, — produces that which is more than a duplicate of 
nature: a living thing. So representative poetry, just like presentative, 
may pass into a higher style, or shall we say into its own highest, — 
namely, the creative. Chaucer is a representative poet, Shakespeare, 
a creative. 



THE CLASSIFICATION OF THE ARTS XXXV 

Interpretative and Creative Art. — When the artist is at his best, 
and here we are thinking especially of the poet, he at one and the same 
time interprets the significance of hfe in its broad, enduring, and spirit- 
ual aspect, and creates characters who live the life. He is Prophet or 
Seer, and also Maker. He sends forth his creatures as realities to move 
up and down among us, Caesars, Shylocks, Orlandos, Desdemonas, 
Ophelias, Portias, significant in the glow of that eternity whose touch 
is art. 

3. THE CLASSIFICATION OF THE ARTS 

The arts may be classified in many ways, but here we shall consider 
them, very briefly, according to the mode of their manifestation, the 
material that they use, their respective cajDability of expression, and the 
senses to which they severally appeal. 

As to the mode, some represent nature at rest, and may be called 
arts of space ; others represent nature in movement, and may be called 
arts of time. The former are architecture, sculpture, and painting ; the 
latter are the art of dancing as it was elaborately practised by the 
ancients, the art of music, and that of poetry. 

Somewhat akin to this classification is that according to the material 
used. Architecture and sculpture present material of three dimensions ; 
painting, however, is less fettered, since it employs for its representations 
the plane or surface, that is to say, two dimensions. The plastic arts, 
sculpture and painting, since they deal with material at rest, are limited to 
the portrayal of a momentary scene, but that of course should be signifi- 
cant, looking before and after, and sufficient, so that we do not weary of 
it because guessing at the outcome. The arts, on the other hand, which 
use for their material motions and sounds, following each other in time, 
as music, acting, and the literature of recital and song, should aim to 
present events or emotions as they follow each other in order. They 
deal preferably and properly with the progress of that which they por- 
tray. They may, of course, describe details lying side by side in space, 
but they should, if possible, describe them as they have progressively 
affected the spectator. 

If we classify the arts according to the grade and scope of thought 
or life that each may express, we find, but I cannot discuss the reasons, 
that the order runs upward somewhat thus : architecture, sculpture, 
painting, music, and poetry. In music the artist presents not mate- 
rial structure, like architecture, nor the forms of natural or human life, 
like painting and sculpture, but the soul divested of the tangible : the 
conflict of moods, its progression and resolution, the history of emo- 
tions, — all in terms of sound, of melody, of harmony, of graduated 
intervals. Poetry, that is to say lyric, reflective, narrative, and the dra- 



XXXvi THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

matic, when read, may, like music, suggest emotional moods and move- 
ments by sequences and variations of sound ; like sculpture and painting 
it may represent living beings at strife or in concord : but it does this, 
not by means of the actual and concrete, but by constructing an ideal 
world out of words and images, that is to say, out of symbols. The 
words must be translated by the understanding of the hearer, and 
images by the imagination ; therefore, to appreciate poetry at all, one 
must exercise a certain logical and poetic faculty not required in every 
case by the other arts. Poetry, therefore, stands very high in the 
hierarchy of the arts. Drama, when it is acted, adds, moreover, to 
poetry other charms, those of sculpture, painting, and pantomime ; the 
spectacle of human form, moving, speaking, and acting. 

If we classify arts according to the senses to which they appeal, it 
will be seen that products of artifice, such as articles prepared for the 
palate, and perfumes, are so closely allied with physical needs and uses 
as to be practically beyond the pale. Architecture has, like the handi- 
crafts, its utility in the practical world, but, appealing to the perception 
of mass and distance and to vision, it delights the higher and more 
delicately organized taste as well. Sculpture appeals both to the sense 
of touch and that of sight ; painting to the sight, but by way of both 
form and color ; music to hearing and the perception of movement ; 
poetry directly to hearing, the sense of movement, and sight, and, by 
the medium of imagination, to these and all other senses as well. 

4. LITERATURE IN GENERAL 

It will be evident from what has been said that all arts are one in 
this : they aim to express the thought of man by some modification of 
the materials in which man works. They diiTer in the materials which 
they use, the modes of manifestation, the ideals which they are able to 
convey, and the senses to which they appeal. A distinction was drawn 
in a previous paragraph between the handicrafts modifying natural 
material for purely practical purposes, like carpentering or tailoring, and 
the arts adapting nature not for purposes of practical utility but the bet- 
ter to express its meaning or to suggest the meaning of life. Of course, 
in a broad sense the term " art " is frequently applied both to handicrafts 
— the industrial arts, — and to the fine arts, for all of these are alike, in 
that they modify nature according to a conscious purpose. Some of the 
latter, however, even though they have the possibilities of fine art, like 
architecture and landscape gardening, may in a degree be also subser- 
vient to purposes of utility ; and to the industrial arts painting and 
sculpture may be allied by practical uses, as in house decoration ; while 
music may lend itself to assist the march of soldiers in battle or the 
progress of pleasure at a dinner. But when the fine arts flourish in 



LITERATURE IN GENERAL XXXvii 

their perfection, when the thought expressed is not of physical need or 
comfort, but an ideal clothed in the only form that for it is inherent, 
rhythmic, and articulate, — and when this ideal so made manifest evokes 
unselfish emotion and fires the free imagination, there is no question of 
the difference between handicraft and art. 

Practical Literature. — Literature may in general be defined as 
the product of thought in language committed to permanent form by 
writing. It is in the broad sense inclusive of all works of the kind, 
whether of actual or spiritual import, practical or artistic form ; but 
when it consists of mere records and the communication of facts, as in 
reports, official papers, the journals of the day, business correspondence, 
text-books, or historical or scientific publications intended to dissemi- 
nate information, it is a handicraft. 

Belles Lettres. — Literature begins to enter the realm of fine art 
when it gives expression to thoughts and feelings about the ideal 
interests of mankind, and that in a form which stimulates the imagina- 
tion and interests the feelings. The literature of scientific discovery, 
when conveyed with artistic arrangement and inviting style, as in the 
writings of Darwin, Tyndall, and Huxley, the literature of history as 
presented by Thucydides or Gibbon, or of philosophy as in the dia- 
logues of Plato, or of politics as reviewed by Macaulay, the oratory of 
Burke and Webster and Phillips Brooks, the critical essays of Matthew 
Arnold and Lowell, — these are all artistic, even though the purpose be 
to instruct or to convince. For the inspiring qualities of the material, 
whether ethical, political, scientific, or religious, and the charm of man- 
ner and style with which it is presented, as well as the appeal made to 
the imaginative and creative faculty of the reader and to his feelings, 
combine to lift the literature of purpose into the realm of ideal enjoy- 
ment where art resides and controls. The rhythm of the language in 
such artistic literature of purpose is of the flowing, variable, natural 
kind, appropriate to prose, — a rhythm not yet held in restraint by the 
metrical laws which govern verse. In proportion, however, as the 
attempt is to win the interest of the reader, not simply by the instruc- 
tiveness of its material but by the manner of the presentation, the 
product is more or less entitled to rank as Fine, Polite, or Artistic 
Literature, — Belles Lettres. 

Pure or Creative Literature. — When the author, proceeding a 
step further, selects a subject no longer of practical or particular nature, 
but transfigured by imagination, or imaginatively constructed, and when 
he presents this with conscious elaboration, in order that the appeal 
may be directly to the imagination of his readers and the emotions that 
delight in the ideal, his production is Pure or Creative Literature. The 
form of his writing may retain the larger rhythms of natural speech, 



XXXviii THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

as in prose drama, or it may adopt the more highly and dehcately 
organized vesture of verse, — rhythm regulated by metre, and by the 
accord of word-sounds in tone, sequence, and rhyme. The latter is 
Poetry Proper, — ballad, lyric, epic, drama, idyl, pastoral, reflective 
poem, elegy, or masque, as the case may be. 

5. POETRY PROPER 

Verse and Prose. — It is not the use of verse alone, — that is to say, 
metrically arranged rhythm, — that constitutes poetry ; prose, such as 
that of everyday speech, and verse as we know it in metres, rhymes, and 
stanzas, are merely instruments, and they may be used indifferently by 
literature of the instructive kind or by the literature of the imagination. 
But as a rule, poetry, since it treats of ideal thought in a highly imagina- 
tive way and for the purpose of appealing to the higher feelings of man, 
finds its appropriate expression in that highly organized rhytlim gov- 
erned by metrical laws which is called verse. For this organized rhythm 
is exquisitely fitted to awaken the muscular and nervous rhythms of the 
human organization and to correspond to their pulsation, their swing, 
so to speak, when they are under the influence of emotion. In other 
words, the rhythm of sound and that of exalted feeling speak the same 
tongue. Prose is naturally the language of communication ; verse, of 
emotion, or of imagination under the control of emotion. Poetry, or, 
as the word means, creation, differs from the material and product of 
everyday communication in that it implies supreme and concentrated 
imaginative and emotive effort ; it expresses itself most readily in the 
pulsation and swing of sensitive, rhythmical, and highly accentuated 
utterance, such as we call verse. Everybody will concede to poetry a 
superior simplicity and imaginative concreteness, compactness, emotive 
force, and capability to be remembered over the literature expressed in 
prose ; but superiority in these respects would explain poetry only as a 
higher kind of prose. It would establish a difference of degree, to be 
sure, but upon an altogether false basis. Poetry is neither heightened 
prose nor any other degree of prose. It is different in its nature, and it 
calls for a different medium of expression. 

Prose and verse are, as I have said, merely instruments. They may 
both of them be instruments of poetry ; and on that account creative 
fiction and creative drama, even though in prose, are ordinarily called 
poetical, and poetical they certainly may be. But verse, because it is 
nearer akin and more sensitive to the ebb and flow of emotion, is still 
the appropriate instrument for the literature that is totally emotional 
and imaginative, namely, poetry. If we take the thought of a poem 
and turn it into prose, as, for instance, the thought of Wordsworth's 



THE CREATIVE EXPRESSION xxxix 

Ode on bniiiortality^ it may afford the pleasure of a poetical statement 
of philosophical theory, but it will no longer afford the pleasure of 
poetry. The charm, therefore, of the poem was largely dependent upon 
the verse form. But not entirely, for lines which have rhythm, rhyme, 
and metrical form, but no thought whatever, Hke the "counting" verses 

" 'Intry, mintry, kewtry, corn, 
Apple-seed and apple-thorn, 
Wire, brier, limber-lock, — 
Three geese in a flock : 
One flew east and one flew west. 
And one flew over the cuckoo's nest," 

may answer every requirement of verse and gratify the ear, and yet 

not afford the delight peculiar to poetic verse. Indeed, the delight 

afforded falls below that which is derived from rhythmical prose ; such, 

for instance, as that with which Carlyle concludes his account of the 

pathetic fate of a princess slaughtered in the French revolution : — 

/ / / / / / / / 

" She was beautiful ; she was good : she had known no happiness." 

And after all, if we pause after "good," that prose rhythm falls into 
two trochaic-dactylic tetrameters well suited to a thought, itself poeti- 
cally conceived. 

Poetry defined. — The charm of poetry is, then, not alone in its 
verse, nor alone in the images created or in the emotions awakened. 
Its intrinsic quality cannot be apprehended by any such analysis of 
the whole into its apparently component parts. Poetry delights us 
because of the consummate skill with which an imaginative thought 
of evident significance is wedded with the rhythmic, preferably metrical, 
form appropriate to the emotion suggested by the subject. The product 
stirs us with a rhythmic pulsation conformable to the mood that the 
poet himself has experienced. 

From the point of view of the subject and the fortfi, poetry may be 
defined as the imaginative and emotive expression or suggestion of 
that which has significance, in the rhythmical and preferably metrical 
medium of language appropriate to the subject. From the point of 
view of the purpose, it is an imaginative attempt, by means of rhyth- 
mical, and preferably metrical, language, to awaken emotions in the 
reader or hearer that correspond to the mood of the poet himself. 

6. THE CREATIVE EXPRESSION 

Practical literature aims, then, to convince or instruct its readers ; it 
deals with facts as they are, or with reasons ; it appeals to the intellect 
and the will : it would have us know and do. If it express itself at all 



xl THE PRINCirLES OF POETRY 

in imaginative form or with emotion, tliese are secondary to the main 
purpose. The Hterature of art, or belles lettres, on the other hand, while 
it deals with some significant event, object, thought, feeling, or ideal, 
does not exist for the sole purpose of imparting this material to another, 
and the highest reach of belles lettres, namely poetry, does not exist for 
that purpose at all. It cannot help conveying thought ; but its aim is 
not communication. It is creation. Out of words and measures the 
poet builds something to embody and perpetuate his mood, interest, or 
ideal. In that which he makes, his vision stands forth a reality, to be 
enjoyed as if it drew the breath of nature, by himself and by those who 
come into touch with it. The Macbeths, Guineveres, Tam o' Shanters 
of literature live of their own right. Lyrics and songs of passion are 
similarly their own justification ; in them poet and world find sympa- 
thetic relief of sorrow and enhancement of joy. As a good man may 
influence mankind to nobility by his mere presence, so may a good 
drama. But its right to existence is not in any lesson with which it may 
be fraught; it is — like that of any other living thing — in its own per- 
sonality and the personalities that it introduces to the world. If, then, 
poelry has a purpose, it is to impress people and move them by what it 
seems and is, not by what it would teach or preach. It must be clothed 
in language, simple, lucid, vivid ; it must use words that stir the senses, 
words which have the pictorial quality that characterized language when 
first it was coined ; words that make sounds, sights, odors, tastes, and 
mental experiences live for the inner sense which we call imagination ; 
words, too, that go home to the feelings. 

Poetic Diction. — On this account poetry frequently indulges in 
archaic or obsolescent forms of speech, for these recall the simpler days 
when words had more direct and explicit meaning than now. It colors 
plain words with adjectives and epithets that emphasize the characteris- 
tic of the original. It tries to fill the words of every day with richer 
associations, or with new and exquisite significance. It aims to excite 
and exalt the emotions by condensing, so far as possible, the form of 
expression ; by omitting needless particles, conjunctions, and the like ; 
by framing compounds the more effective because of their naive or auda- 
cious novelty. It contrives arrangements of phrase and clause which, 
while they appear to be departures from the ordinary, are conscious 
reversions to the natural and unconscious speech of mankind in moments 
of emotion. All these devices of vocabulary lend color and iridescence 
to the illusion with which poetry clothes itself. For, like all art, poetry, 
while it pictures reality, pictures it under the shadow of a dream. Be- 
cause we know that the picture and the poem, the novel and the drama, 
present not the thing itself but a transfigured thing, we lend ourselves the 
more readily to an unprejudiced, and therefore properly sympathetic, 



THE CREATIVE EXPRESSION xli 

appreciation and contemplation of the beauty of tlie transfiguration and 
the worth of the thing transfigured. This is the imaginative attitude 
essential to the appreciation of art. Goethe's dictum that art is art 
because it is not nature, is intelligible only if we interpret '* not nature " 
to mean " not mere nature but more." Poetry has the heart of nature 
but the garments of a God ; and so she woos us to gaze and wins us to 
understand. By her exterior of diction and verse she appeals to the 
senses. That way prepared, she startles the reader with a vision of 
something concrete, something that gains light and warmth by the work- 
ing of his own imagination and that forthwith sets also his feelings 
aflame. 

The Image-making Process. — Let us for a moment consider the 
nature of the impressions or images by means of which poetry presents 
to us facts, feelings, and thoughts that are worthy of consideration. We 
are brought into connection with external things in everyday life through 
the medium of our senses. The muscular sense gives us sensations of 
movement and resistance, of heat and cold. Taste, smell, and touch 
contribute sensations, each in its own kind and degree ; hearing is an 
avenue for sounds, their intensity, quality, and endurance ; sight reveals 
light and darkness, form and color. These sensations do not of them- 
selves give us knowledge of the objects which produce them. They 
are rather the raw material out of which we may construct that knowl- 
edge. It is only when we have traced sensations of color, odor, form, 
and taste to their source in a given object, say an apple, that we have 
knowledge of the object that has yielded them; only when we have 
traced a sensation of light to its cause that we know the lantern whence 
it issued. We \\-\ws, perceive, that is to say, grasp tJwroiighly and hold as 
one,\}c\& raw materials of sensation and the objects themselves of which the 
color, form, and light were attributes or qualities. This process of know- 
ing things is perception, and the result obtained by the mind is called a 
percept. When the sensation is first experienced, the mind is only 
very slightly at work, — almost passive, only vaguely attentive. As 
soon, however, as it attempts to trace to its particular source the im- 
pression made by the ray of light upon the eye, it begins to work ; when 
it identifies the lantern, it begins to know. The next time that a 
similar impression of light is presented to the eye, the mind will be 
quicker to perceive the cause ; it will also recollect the impressions pro- 
duced by the former occurrence, — the appearance and the touch, per- 
haps, of the lantern. This second time, therefore, perception not only 
grasps what is directly presented to the mind ; it also groups about the 
present impression pictures remembered from the earlier experience. 

The Memory Image. — These pictures, or impressions of a percept 
retained after it has itself departed, are images. The apple with its 



xlii THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

form, taste, color, may be recalled to mind, because its image abides in 
memory. The memory is, therefore, a faculty by which we are able to 
imagine, or reconstruct a copy of, that which was formerly perceived. 
It is a kind of imagination, not the only kind, but the simplest. It is 
reproduction of that which once existed for the mind, though now both 
time and place may be different. Memory, moreover, will reproduce, 
not simply the apple that you plucked, but the tree from which you 
plucked it, the hour of day, and so forth. It associates the special 
object of perception with objects or events that attended it — all in the 
same image : just as a photographic plate preserves not only the person 
photographed, but the background. Still more interesting is the fact 
that if the background, that tree, for instance, is brought to notice, the 
mind will at once reconstruct the image also of the man who stood 
before it. The memory, or reproductive imagination, associates im- 
pressions that have been made together in time or place : to remember 
one is to remember another that lay close by in the original experience. 
The association depends here upon physical connection. But the asso- 
ciation works, also, by comparison: either of things similar, — we recall 
a voice like one that we at present hear; or of things dissimilar, — the 
rain of to-day may remind us of the sunshine of yesterday. 

The Memory-image in Poetry. — Now these images reproduced 
or derived from an experience are of as many kinds as there are physical 
senses. Those that came originally through the eye are visual ; those 
that came through the ear, auditory ; and so on, — gustatory, tactile, 
etc. It stands to reason that the poet who varies his appeal to the 
senses, by varying the kind and degree of images widely and skilfully, 
increases his chance of attracting and holding the interest of the 
reader. Though this reproductive imagery is, as I have said, not the 
highest product of imagination, there is poetry of a fascinating and 
therefore excellent kind which, so far as imagery is concerned, uses little 
else — the poetry of the older ballad, for instance. This depends for 
its charm largely upon a vivid and varied series of memory-images, 
unmodified and unadorned, — either the direct recollection of an experi- 
ence, or images of connection, similarity, or contrast, associated with it. 
I do not mean that in such verse the language is not adorned. I say 
merely that the images are plain, unvarnished copies of a recollection or 
an imagined recollection of this, that, and the other scene or event, 
emotion, or ideal. The language may and does abound in rhetorical or 
logical charms, but purely rhetorical or logical, not poetic or creative as 
well. By rhetorical charms I mean those figures which are peculiarly 
and exclusively concerned with the arrangement of speech : exclama- 
tion, interrogation, aposiopesis, inversion, balance, antithesis, repetition, 
climax, and anticlimax ; and by the logical I mean a number of figures, 



THE CREATIVE EXPRESSION xliii 

not to be confused with the rhetorical, which depend upon the artistic 
manipulation of some device of thought, logical or rather sophistical : 
hyperbole, innuendo, irony, oxymoron, euphemism, and prolepsis. Of 
these figures of speech and reason I shall have more to say later. They 
are the common stock of all expression — merely adventitious in their 
service to poetry. The ballads, to return to my statement, depend for 
their success largely upon the use of memory-images and the charm of 
rhetorical and logical device. Such also is the case with Macaulay's 
Lays of Ancient Rome and most of Sir Walter Scott's metrical romances. 
In the following stanza from the Horatius the images are all primary ; 
that is to say, not worked over by any higher imaginative process — each 
set by the other fresh from the mint of memory : — 

" The harvests of Arretium, 

This year, old men shall reap ; 
This year, young boys in Umbro 

Shall plunge the struggling sheep; 
And in the vats of Luna, 

This year, the must shall foam 
Round the white feet of laughing girls 

Whose sires have marched to Rome." 

The pictures are simple, but numerous, natural, and vivid. The mere 
recollection of richly colored scenes is pleasing ; much more so, how- 
ever, because narrated with rhetorical skill : with due distribution of the 
component parts, with repetition and climax. So far as imagination 
goes, Horatius is principally a vivid representation of images that, if 
experienced in real life, would move our feelings by their simplicity and 
fervor, and that still more move when apparently remembered by the 
minstrel, and recited in a season of tranquillity with all the focussing 
of emotional effect and dramatic coloring that manner and order can 
contribute. 

Figures: (i) The Created Image or the Figure of Poetry. — 
But images may be more vivid and suggestive when they are not 
recollected or primary ; when they are the representation of facts or 
fancies selected, modified, rearranged, constructed into something new 
both in idea and expression ; when they bring before us not simple 
" day-break," but " incense-breathing Morn " or " the opening eyelids 
of the Dawn"; not the plain impression of a melody that is sad, but of 
" music yearning like a God in pain." When images illuminate and 
color the impression received from experience with the riches of associ- 
ated memory or of fancy supposed to be remembered, then they live 
not only by virtue of their own significance, but of their relation to 
things similar or surrounding, in time, place, or thought. The memory- 
image " morn " and the poetic or created image " incense-breathing " 



xliv THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

by their conjunction mutually confer life. Not only is incense-breathing 
Morn a personality, she is herself capable of suggesting accompanying 
moods and characteristics of life ; she sets the reader to creating. The 
melody played in minor key is a primary or recollected image, so the 
moaning of one in pain ; but when the music yearns like a God in pain, 
each member of the comparison thrills with the spirit of the other ; 
and their communion represents more than the addition of the parts. 

These created and creative images are sometimes called figures of 
speech ; but since that term has been vaguely extended over two other 
wide and wholly different modes of expression, 7>iz. devices of rhetorical 
arrangement and devices of logical subtlety, we had better discriminate the 
mode of which we now are speaking by applying a more specific name : 
figures of poetry. P'igures of rhetoric and figures of logical artifice are 
common to prose as well as to poetry, and of them we shall speak later. 

Definition. — Created images, or figures of poetry, express one ob- 
ject, condition or action, in terms of, or by the aid of, another. By 
poetic imagery the lightning "leaps." In this case, by analogy with 
animal motion an attribute is transferred to the inanimate which ap- 
pears to give it life. This transfiguration of a thought by placing it 
in solution with another so that a salt, of which each alone was inca- 
pable, results from the reaction — a salt which is the meaning and 
essence of both, — might better pass as figured speech than as a figure 
of speech. It focusses in the image the artistic interest of the environ- 
ment. It is not a mere mode or arrangement of words ; it is a some- 
thing created, an individuality. The ancient and much abused term 
trope indicates the method of the poetic transfiguration. A trope is a 
turning of the words concerned from their ordinary to an extraor- 
dinary service, namely, to express the thought or picture of the object, 
not in its simplicity, but as coloring, or colored by, related or surround- 
ing objects. 

Figures of Comparison : the Same, the Like, the Unlike. — The 
metaphor is based upon resemblance in the ordinary world of life and 
thought : as when Byron calls the lonely and the outcast " orphans of 
the heart " ; so, also, is the simile, — as when he says of fallen Rome, "A 
world is at our feet as fragile as our clay." In the Metaphor, how- 
ever, the identity of the " lonely " with the " orphan " is assumed ; 
and the image is stated in terms entirely of the object that seemed 
similar, not " the lonely like orphans of the heart," but merely '■'■the 
orphans of the heart must turn to thee." In the Simile, on the other 
hand, not the identity but the likeness of the objects is assumed : the 
comparison is more elaborate, and both sides of it are expressed. Pro- 
vided only the object of comparison and the thing compared are placed 
at the same time before us, it is not essential to a simile that the resem- 



THE CREATIVE EXPRESSION xlv 

blance be stated as above with a preliminary like or as. The h'keness 
may be expressed by an is or are, or by an apposition — " O Rome, 
my country, . . . lone mother of dead empires." Here Rome is lik- 
ened to a mother : a simile is implied ; but the simile itself contains 
a metaphor in the term "dead empires." 

Personification is ordinarily regarded as a distinct form of the poetic 
figure ; but it is in essence merely that species of metaphor which 
expresses abstractions or inanimate things in terms of things inimate. 
" Virtue could see to do what Virtue would 

By her own radiant light, though sun and mooa 

Were in the flat sea sunk," 

contains a personification of Virtue seeing and doing ; but the attribu- 
tion of life to Virtue is not different in method from the attribution of 
light in the next line; they are both metaphors. So also the personi- 
fication of " empires " as " dead," in the quotation from Cliilde Harold 
given above. There is, evidently, a difference of degree between the 
trojie, or figure of poetry, that respects the limitations of time and dis- 
tance and what is known as common sense, and the trope that ignores 
the conditions of actuality, oversteps them and walks as if in a dream- 
world where ideas have forms, where the inanimate lives, where past, 
present, and future are as one, and the absent may be summoned into 
presence with a wave of the poet's wand. Personification, when it 
assumes the resemblance of a city to a soul, is merely metaphor ideal- 
ized, — metaphor raised to so high a degree that it no longer limits 
itself by normal conditions. In this dream-world the step from personi- 
fying an abstraction or a thing, whether present or absent, to addressing 
it, is very short ; and so originates the idealized metaphor known as 
Apostrophe : "O Rome, my country!" or "Frailty, thy name is woman," 
or "Begin then, Sisters of the Sacred Well." And close akin to this 
trope is Vision, by which the distant, or the past or future, is regarded, 
and spoken of as present. " I see before me the Gladiator lie," says 
Byron ; and the image is merely a simile idealized : " I hold in mind 
the image of the Gladiator as if I saw him." 

" They chant their artless notes in simple guise, 
They tune their hearts — " 
writes Burns of the Cotter and his flock, as if the strains of their 
" Dundee " or " Plaintive Martyrs " or " Noble Elgin " were even now 
ringing in his ears. And when the fiature is represented as already 
accomplished practically the same trope recurs. The brothers in Keats's 
Isabella have not yet murdered their companion, but he is as good 
as murdered in their intention : — 

" So these two brothers with their murdered man 
Rode past fair Florence," 



xlvi THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

The rhetoricians call this device Prolepsis. It is nothing but a meta- 
phor or simile in which time has been swallowed. Frequently, more- 
over, the idealized metaphor or simile is employed by some figure of 
rhetoric or of logical artifice, such as the hyperbole, — a statement 
intended to startle by its exaggerated form. For instance, in Comits, 
where the Spirii describing the song of the Sister says that he '' took 
in strains that might create a soul under the ribs of death." Here the 
idealization is of physical and causal relations. But since hyperbole is 
essentially a logical artifice, not a poetic image or trope, it must be 
reserved for another paragraph. Of figures based upon unlikeness 
nothing special need be said. They are metaphors or similes negatively 
stated. The comparison, by emphasizing the difference between two ob- 
jects in one respect, sometimes aims to suggest their resemblance in others. 

Figures of Contiguity depend for their association in the mind, not 
upon a comparison of qualities, but upon neighborhood in material, 
time, or thought. When one memory-image is substituted for an- 
other because the two seem to have some connection in material or 
space, such as that of the material and the thing made out of it, 
the part and the whole, the whole and the part, the container and 
the thing contained, or vice versa, we have the trope called Synec- 
doche, a gathering of impressions under a common name ; for instance, 
" the tinkling brass,'''' " How beautiful are the feet of them that preach 
the gospel of peace," '^Jerusalem sang for joy," " Costly thy habit as 
thy purse can buy." When, however, one memory-image is substi- 
tuted for another, because of a relation in time or of juxtaposition in 
thought, we have Metonymy (or change of names). Of the former 
kind of metonymy an examjDle would be '' all autumn " for the fruits of 
that season. Of the latter kind there are various classes : The sign 
for the thing signified, as " the rod of empire " for imperial power, 
"gray hairs" for old age. Or the effect for the cause or vice versa, 
as " Danger will not wink on opportunity," since wi)iking is both 
result and sign of growing sleepy ; or " The bright deat/i,''' for the 
cause of death — the sword. Or such substitutions as "the Spaniard" 
for Spain, and "France" for the King of France, which are not sub- 
stitutions of part for whole or whole for part, but of representative for 
thing represented (A fitonomasia), and specification for person specified. 
Another kind of metonymy is the application of the quality of one thing 
to another, by what is called poetic inversion, or transference of epithet, 
as when Goldsmith speaks of the " silent manliness of grief," or when 
Milton writes " the pensive secrecy of solitude," referring to the oppor- 
tunity for thought which solitude affords. 

Imagination and Fancy. — Before we pass to the less creative 
instruments of poetry, — logic and rhetoric, — it will be wise to consider 



THE CREATIVE EXPRESSION xlvii 

briefly the relation of Fancy to tlie image-making process that has just 
been described. Imagination modifies or shapes or creates appearances 
in such a way as to emphasize their real meaning ; it confers upon the 
particular the universal character; by its touch ephemeral things are 
made enduring and the accidental becomes ideal. Fancy, on the 
other hand, plays with the likenesses or differences that are on the 
surface. It modifies or rearranges materials with a result which is 
slight, limited, evanescent. It talks of the ruby of the lip or the ivory 
of the brow, but there is no innate likeness between the objects com- 
pared. Fancy makes use of external facts for its similes and meta- 
phors ; imagination fires and sublimates the facts. Fancy makes use 
of casual outstanding properties of the objects that it brings into con- 
junction ; imagination deals with properties that are inherent and eternal. 
Fancy is capricious, profuse, rapid, subtle, transitory ; it pleases and 
amuses, whereas imagination enlightens, incites, and uplifts. Fancy, 
in fine, brings things together in correlation ; it does not create ; it 
embellishes, but it does not interpret. In general, it deals with the 
resemblances of forms, and appeals merely to the feelings to which 
form appeals. Imagination, on the other hand, treats of ideal values, 
penetrates the surface of things, appeals to the highest activity of the 
energy of the reader, sets him to creating for himself. 

(2) Figures of Logical Artifice. — The poetic figures or tropes of 
which I have spoken depend upon a transfiguration of images associated 
by quality or connection. Poetic figures use words out of their literal 
meaning, but their purpose is affirmative : to present the objects of 
comparison in deeper and richer color. Two other classes of figures 
exist, however, which, though they sometimes adorn themselves with 
poetic images, do not depend upon the use of them ; indeed, have 
nothing more in common with them than their ability to vivify, enforce, 
and adorn language. These are figures of logical artifice, and figures 
of rhetoric. The former are used in prose literature and in conversa- 
tion as much as in poetry, — probably more. They are devices for 
leading the reader or hearer to a conclusion not always that which 
is apparently stated, nor indeed always that which is true. And 
still the reader or hearer is not deceived by the process, — and the 
speaker is satisfied if he has carried the audience to a halfway con- 
clusion, or to a conviction exactly the reverse of that which seemed 
to be intended. These are therefore devices of reasoning or logic: 
not figures of serious logic, but more generally of logical fallacy, mock- 
logic or logical artifice. These figures are, first, Hyperbole. This 
exaggerates the emotion or sentiment of the speaker to a degree im- 
possible or improbable to reconcile with fact : as when a mother says 
of a child who, on going to bed, unnecessarily repeats his adieux, " He 



xlviii THE PRINCIPLES OF POETKV 

keeps up his 'Good-nights' until morning." Of course, the speaker 
does not intend to deceive, but merely to startle the hearer into an 
acceptance of something more than the plain statement of fact would carry, 
although less than the hyperbole literally conveys. Second, Litotes or 
Innuendo, which understates, or extenuates, the fact as much as hyper- 
bole overstates : as when, of a jolly monk, Chaucer says, " He was not 
pale as a for-pyned goost." Third, Irony, which expresses the contrary 
of what is meant : as when we sneeringly refer to a bad speaker as an 
orator. Fourth, Oxymoron, where a coupling of words, apparently fool- 
ish because the words are contradictory, turns out on second thoughts 
to express a subtle distinction not conveyed by either word alone, — as 
when we say, '" he is conspicuous by his absence," or " she was a glori- 
ous failure." Fifth, Eitp/iemism, where we soften the disagreeable truth 
by pretending to regard it as good ; when, for instance, we say of one 
who has died, '' She is released." 

Now it is an interesting fact not hitherto noticed, so far as I know, 
that most, if not all, of these ligures depend for their characteristic, not 
upon the use of poetic images, but upon their appeal to the reasoning 
faculty of the hearer. The reader, by an instinctive logic, knows that 
the hyperbole does not reason faiily, but he knows also that the author 
credits him with too much common sense to be deceived. The reader 
is consequently flattered by the appeal to his intelligence, and the author 
gains his point, which was not to maintain all that the hyperbole affirmed, 
but to carry the reader ^«r/ w^y toward the violent and impossible con- 
clusion. In the lines 

" Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood 
Clean from my hand ? No : this my hand will rather 
The multitudinous sea incarnadine, 
Making the green one red," 

Macbeth argues from the fact that a certain amount of water used in 
washing a bloody hand will itself turn red to the conclusion that his 
hand would turn any amount of water, even the ocean itself, "one red." 
The reader, instinctively detecting the strained logic, accepts, however, 
the implication that the hand is steeped in blood beyond the common. 
So when the Spirit in Co/nies says of the Sister's song : — 

" I was all ear, 
And took in strains that might create a soul 
Under the ribs of death," 

the person addressed, though he may know nothing of logic, not even 
have heard of the fallacies of illicit process and undistributed middle, 
knows at once that to listen attentively is not to turn your whole body 
into an ear, that music, though it awakens or inspires the soul, does not 



THE CREATIVE EXPRESSION xlix 

create it, and that a soul created could not be alive and dead at the same 
time. But he leaps to the implication intended by the hyperbole. Simi- 
larly, the innuendo insinuated by the statement that a monk is not pale 
as a forpined ghost depends for its success upon the probability that 
the reader will jocosely leap to the conclusion that the monk is the 
exact opposite, all that he was not said to be, a wine-bibber and purple- 
nosed. But both Chaucer and the reader are aware of many alterna- 
tives of complexion for jovial men, between the pallid and the purple. 
The irony of " Go, teach eternal wisdom how to rule " depends, likewise, 
upon a common understanding between speaker and hearer, by which 
the illogical exaggeration is accepted with a grain of salt, because at the 
same time recognized as a reduction to absurdity or impossibility. The 
oxymoron, such as Chaucer's 

" Smale fowles maken melodye 
That slepen al the night with open eye" 

depends upon a similar mock -logic ; and the euphemism is but the con- 
verse of hyperbole, or if humorous, of the same sophistical kin as the lito- 
tes. None of these figures is essentially creative ; but when wedded with 
poetic figures, metaphor, simile, synecdoche, metonymy, as in most of 
the examples given above, they enhance the emotional and imaginative 
effect, by their deviation from the processes of work-a-day reasoning. 

(3) Rhetorical Figures. — Of rhetorical figures it is unnecessary 
to say more than that they, too, when used in poetry, attract not by 
their creative quality, for they have none. Some attract by the direct 
imitation of emotional outcry: as in the exclamation (or ecphonesis), 
the interrogation (or erotesis), the broken utterance (or aposwpesis) . 
All three of these are employed in the exquisite 

" Had ye been there, — for what could that have done ? " 

of Milton's elegy. Others owe their charm and power to some artistic 
arrangement of sentence or paragraph as in the iteration 

" For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 
Who would not sing for Lycidas ? " 

Of antithesis^ balance, parallelistn, climax, and atiticlimax, the same 
statement holds true. They are not figures of poetry, but of rhetorical 
arrangement. 

Of course all these accentuations of the usual method of excited utter- 
ance, and these departures from the careless order of conversational 
speech, are common to the prose of practical literature. But the 
devices of the former or eviotiotial kind appear frequently in poetry, 



1 THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

as if playing the part of waves on which the fleet of imagery — really 
poetic — may fare afloat. Devices of the latter or ordering kind serve 
as winds to marshal battle-ship and cockle-shell to the haven that is 
the heart. 

7. THE RHYTHM OF VERSE: FOOT AND METRE 

Verse depends upon the rhythm of sounds, their quality and pitch, 
and their harmony or consonance. 

Rhythm in Verse. — The recurrence of identity at regular time or 
space intervals which pleases us when it characterizes thought and 
natural movements and forms, and which the musician, architect, 
painter, and sculptor aim to reproduce and emphasize in the materials 
of their various arts, the poet attempts to represent in the materials of 
language. He feels the rhythmic swing of thought or mood or action, 
and he translates this into language of a corresponding rhythmical beat. 
There is a rhythm of emotional diction in all speech ; but since experi- 
ence has taught men that certain rhythmical sequences are more suita- 
ble than others to the representation of particular moods, these sequences 
have been favored by the poets ; have been, so to speak, singled out 
and conventionahzed. They were undoubtedly suggested to our fore- 
fathers by the regular beat of the words which they chanted to the time 
of their choral dances. First originated the dance for some solemn or 
festival occasion of love or war, labor or religion, in which all marched 
together — one, two, three, four steps forward, and one, two, three, four, 
back. Soon accompanying emotional utterances were timed to the 

/ / y / 

marching, such as ha-ah, ha-ah, ha-ah. ha I Then, in course of time, 
words were chanted in syllables alternately accented and unaccented 
according as the steps were heavy or light. When, later still, the 
chanted words came to be separated from the dance, there arose the 
independent song or story recited to a musical accompaniment. And, 
last of all, the verse divorced from music stood by itself. Now the differ- 
ence between a verse-utterance of this kind and an utterance in prose, 
so far as the form is concerned, lies principally in the rhythm ; that is 
to say, in the regularity with which the accented syllables recur. If we 
mark the accents of the sentence beginning " Now the diff"erence," above, 

/ / / / / / 

we have " Now the difference between a verse-utterance of this kind and 

an utterance in prose." It will be noticed that there is no uniform 
quality of movement up to, or down from, each accent ; and no regular 
interval of time between the successive accents. But if we recast the 
sentence thus : — 



THE RHYTHM OF VERSE: FOOT AND METRE li 

/ / / / / / / 

"The difference between a line of poetry and prose," we note tliat the 
rhythm regularly ascends to the stress ; and that the syllables capable 
of receiving accent have been ordered so that each is separated from the 
next by a light or unstressed syllable. From such a process of rhythmi- 
cal arrangement as this there result first the foot and second the metre. 

The Foot. — The foot in English poetry is the smallest possible 
independent combination of accented and unaccented syllables regu- 
larly recurring in a poem ; and by its regular and continuous recurrence 
the foot determines the rhythm of the whole. The character of tlie 
rhythm depends, therefore, in English upon the composition of this 
unit, the foot. In Greek and Roman verse, on the other hand, the 
measurement was entirely by time, the accent was not regarded, and 
the unit was not the foot, as in English, but the short syllable (w). two 

of which were equal to a long ( ). A foot of two longs ( ) was 

called a spondee ; of a long and two shorts (_ ^ w) a dactyl ; of two 
shorts and a long {kj \j _) an anapaest ; of a long and a short (_ ^) a 

trochee ; of a short and a long (^ ) an iambus ; of two shorts (w w) a 

pyrrhus ; of a long, two shorts, and a long ( ^ ^ ) a choriambus ; of 

a short, long, short (^ v^) an amphibrach; of a long and three- 
shorts ( \^ w w) a pason. Feet of different lengths might, more- 
over, be arranged in a fixed order to make a verse. Thus : — 

"Maece|nas a avis | edite re | gibus," 

where the first foot contains four units of time, the second six, the third 
six, and the fourth two. The prose accent is not observed at all, but 
the time-units must always follow the same order. 

It must not be supposed that in English metres time plays no part 
whatever. Both accent and time enter into the composition of the 
English verse-unit, for the feet are always, in theory, at least, of the 
same length, and the accent of each foot preserves the same position in 
relation to the unaccented time-interval : that is to say, to the time 
occupied by the light syllables between the accents. The stress, as the 
verse-accent is called, may and sometimes does lengthen the pronuncia- 
tion of the syllable upon which it falls. And since we measure our line 
of poetry, or verse, by the number of regularly recurring stresses, it is 
not strange that we ordinarily speak of the stressed syllables as long 
and of the others as short. But it must be remembered that the 
unaccented syllables in English are not equally short in conversational 
utterance, nor is each of them naturally one-half the length of a stressed 
syllable. We simply aim to write and read our verses in such a way as 
to keep the unaccented syllable or syllables within approximately the 



Hi THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

same length of utterance, so that the stress may recur at regular inter- 
vals. In the hne 

"And the bay — was white | with si|lent light," 

'And' and 4he' are both short, but 'and' probably takes longer- to say 
than 'the'. Both together, however, are supposed to occupy no more 
time than the single syllable ' was ' in the next foot. So also ' was ' 
and * with ' are read as equal in length with ' lent ' ; but there is no 
doubt that ' lent ' is naturally longer than either of them. The charac- 
ter of the foot in English, then, depends more upon the regular position 
of the stress in relation to the interval of unstressed syllables than upon 
the equality of the short syllables one to another or their proportion to 
the stressed in length. There are usually not more than two unstressed 
syllables in a foot ; but occasionally we find as many as three, for 
instance, in Kipling's The Last Chantey, 

/ \J \J \J / \J KJ \J / \J \J \J / 

" CalUng to the | angels and the | souls in their de|gree ; " 
and in Fiizzy-VVuzzy, 

/ W / \J \J \J / \J \J \J / 

"He's an | india-rubber | idiot on a | spree," 

where the four-syllabled feet, accent and all, are approximately equal in 
length to the first, of two syllables and the last of one. There may 
even be four unstressed syllables. Still we may as well continue to use 
the names of classical 'quantity' feet for the simpler kinds of 'stress' 
foot. Those names, dactyl, etc., gained the right of way when our 
Elizabethan poets were trying to regulate English verse by Latin cus- 
tom ; and not even yet have any good substitutes, indicating the accentual 
principle, been coined. In symbolizing the rhythm we may, however, 

substitute the sign of a stress (/_) for the sign of a long syllable ( ). 

English Feet. — The commonest foot in English is the iamb (w / ). 
For it the anapaest is sometimes substituted as in the following from 
The Prisoner of Chilian : — 

" There are sev|en pil|lars of Goth|ic mould." 

Of all our rhythms the iambic appears to be the best adapted to serious, 
stately, continued narrative or dramatic or reflective verse. Note, for in- 
stance, the Idylls of the King, Comiis, and // Penseroso. It is the rhythm 
of our greatest poems. The anapcest (/ ^ w) (sister of the iamb, for 
the stress holds in both the same position in relation to the unstressed 
syllables of the foot) may be used by itself for both light and serious 
verse, but it is generally strengthened by the cooperation of the iamb. 
The ascending movement, at first rapid, then sustained, is singularly 



THE RHYTHM OF VERSE: FOOT AND METRE liii 

suited to the expression of enthusiasm, exalted contemplation, success- 
ful effort, as in Bayard Taylor's National Ode, 

" She was born | of the long|ing of ag|es 

By the truth | of the no|ble dead; " 
or in Bro\vning''s 

" I gal|loped, Dirck galjloped, we gal|loped all three." 

The trochee (/ ^) has a rapid and tripping effect as in 

/ \j / w / \j / 
" Bacchus I ever | fair and | young," 

and in many lines of V Allegro ; but it is also adapted to thoughtful and 
somewhat reminiscent narrative or address, for instance, in Arnold's 
Forsaken Merman, 

" Call her | once be|fore you | go," 

and in his Rugby Chapel; also in Hiawatha. 

The dactyl ( / ww) is in English still more hurried and bounding than 
its sister the trochee, with which it is often associated. It has a gracious 
swing, but even when well handled, as by Longfellow in the Evangeline, 

"This is the | forest pri|meval, the | murmuring | pines and the | hemlocks," 

the protracted use of it is liable to be monotonous. Its most felicitous 
employment is in conjunction with the trochee, in the reflective or narra- 
tive lyric, as in The Blue and the Gray, 

" These in the | robings of | glory," 

or The Charge of the Light Brigade, 

/ \j \j /WW y \j \j y \J 

" Half a league ; | half a league ; | half a league | onward." 

Such are the feet principally found in English verse. 

The spondee (//), two longs in Latin, would give us a line of succes- 
sive stresses in English, and therefore cannot be consecutively employed. 
While we occasionally designate a word like corn-crake or farewell a 
spondee, or feet like " rocks, caves," spondaic, such feet in our verse of 
alternating stressed and unstressed syllables become trochaic or iambic. 
We may talk, however, of the spondaic effect of a verse that abounds in 
successive heavy and sonorous syllables. Note, for instance, Tennyson's 
line on the burial of the Great Duke. Scanned in the classical manner. 



" With an | empire's | lamen|tation," 
the movement is spondaic ; but the rhythm by accent is trochaic. 



liv THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY ' | 

The pyrr/iic (ww) frequently occurs, so far as quantity is concerned, 
but we at once stress one of the syllables in imagination, or we pause to 
conform it to the rhythm, and so make trochee or iamb out of the foot. 
In the line ^ z / ^ ^ / 

" The love | he bore | to Iearn|ing was | in fault," 

the natural pause before was gives that syllable a length that compen- 
sates for the lack of stress. A line of successive unstressed syllables 
would be as impossible as one of successive stresses. 
The amphibrach (^ / w) is said to occur in 

"There came to | the beach a | poor exile | of Erin ; " 

but such a line is easily resolved into dactyls if we count the first sylla- 
ble as extra by what is called anacrusis, and the last syllable as missing 
by what is called catalexis : — 

" There | came to the | beach a poor | exile of | Erin." 

/ / 

Or it may be read as anapaestic, " There came to the beach," etc., if 
we regard the first foot as iambic, and the last syllable as extra by what 
is called hypercatalexis. 

As to \\\e pcBon (/ \jsj\j), it will be noticed that a secondary stress 
may sometimes fall upon the third syllable, making two trochees of the 
foot. In ■ 

/ \j \^ \j / ^J \j \J / Ky \j ^ / 

" Oh I Paddy dear and | did you hear the | news that's going | round," 

this secondary accent falls on 'dear,' 'hear.' 'go.' But there is more 
justification for recognizing this foot in English (as in Kipling's The 
Last Chantey^ ox Fuzzy-Wuzsy) than the spondee, pyrrhic, or amphi- 
brach. Its opposite (v^ww/) occurs also in English, and may be 
called the anti-pceon. It may sometimes be resolved into iambs. 

Metre. — The foot is the unit of poetic rhythm in English. It 
is like a ripple on the current of a river. Metre, or measure, as the 
word signifies, marks off the current of rhythm into artificial divisions, 
each of which is a line or verse. Metre regulates the number of feet in 
verse ; and with the end of one verse or " turn " the rhythm begins 
another. In progression from a verse of one foot or stress, to a verse 
of eight stresses, the measures are known as monometer, dimeter, trim- 
eter, tetrameter, pentameter, hexameter, heptameter, octameter. These 
may be called one stress metre, two stress metre, etc., if the student 
prefer. For purposes of brevity trochaic monometer is frequently indi- 
cated by the letters a x\ a standing for an accented syllable, x for an 



THE KIIYTHM OF VERSE: FOOT AND METRE Iv 

unaccented. Similarly iambic monometer is indicated by x a\ dactylic 
by a X X, anapaestic by x .v a. 

/ / / / 

" With ravished ears " is iambic dimeter {z x a)\ " Rich the treas- 

/ / 

ure" is trochaic dimeter (2ax) ; " Lift her up tenderly," dactylic dimeter 

/ / 

(2 ax x) ; " As I ride, as I ride," anapaestic dimeter {2xxa), — and so 
forth. It is surely not necessary to give examples of all varieties. lam- 

/ / 
bic trimeters open the stanzas of Rabbi ben Ezra, " Grow old, along 

with me." An example of trochaic trimeter would be " Where the 
/ / / / / / 

apple reddens " ; of trochaic tetrameter, " Bacchus' blessings are a treas- 
ure " (this will be recognized as the metre of Hiawatha) ; of iajnbic 

/ / / / / 

tetrameter, " At last divine Cecilia came " ; of dactylic tetrameter, " Just 

/ / / 

for a handful of silver he left us" (the last foot trochaic) ; of anapcestic 

/ / / / 

tetrameter, " I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he " (the first foot 

iambic). 

Frequently metres of the same rhythm but of different length are com- 
bined, as, for instance, in the well-known Common Metre (C. M.) of 
the hymnals, which is the old ballad measure found in Sir Patrick 
Spens, Otterbourne, etc., — iambic tetrameter and iambic trimeter alter- 
nating : 4 X a, 3 xa, 4 xa, 3 xa. Most of Scott's metrical romances are 
written in combinations of iambic tetrameters and trimeters ; so also, 
of the poems included in this volume, are Horatiiis and The Ancient 
Mariner. 

The pentameter is best known in its iambic rhythm. When rhymed 
in couplets it is the Heroic Verse of many seventeenth and eighteenth 
century epics and dramas ; and that is the metre of The Prologue to the 
Canterbury Tales and the Rape of the Lock. When unrhymed this 
pentameter is Blank Verse, as in Shakespeare's plays. Paradise Lost, 
Comus, and Tennyson's Idylls of the King: — 

/ / / / / 

" So all day long the noise of battle rolled 
/ / / / / 

Among the mountains by the winter sea." 

Of blank verse we shall presently have more to say. It is the stand- 
ard English metre for themes of gravity and magnitude. 

Other five-stress, or pentameter lines, trochaic, dactylic, or anapaestic, 
are occasionally used. The first is monotonous, — unless varied by the 
insertion of a dactyl in the second foot and an occasional spondee in the 
first. Then it attains somewhat of the piquancy of the Latin hendeca- 



Ivi THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

syllabic (or Phalaecian) verse written by Catullus and Martial. The hen- 
decasyllabic has never flourished in England, for 

/ / / WW /W / W / \J 

" Hard, hard, | hard it is, | only | not to | tumble, 
/ / / / / / 

So fan|tastical | is the | dainty | metre " — 

as Tennyson says in an attempt to reproduce it. The dactylic pen- 
tameter is also rare. The anapaestic, however, has been used with 
splendidly musical effect by Browning, as in Saul, 

/ / / / / 

" A Face like my face that receives thee ; a Man like to me," 

and by Tennyson in Maud. 

Of the six-stress line, the more important varieties are the iambic, 
called ordinarily the senarius or Alexandrine, — and the dactylic, which 
has appropriated the name hexameter. The senarius was largely used 
in early modern English, especially by the dramatists, as, for instance, 
by Nicholas Udall in what is regarded as our first regular comedy, 
Roister Doister. His senarii run thus : — 

/ / / / / / 

" Truepennie get thee in, thou shalt among them knowe." 

But the senarius was at that time often combined with the older seven- 
stress iambic, or septenarius, that had been common in Middle English 
poetry. This conjunction of senarii and septenarii was called Poulter's 
'measure, from its irregularity of count (like the thirteen to a baker's or 
poulterer's dozen). The following from the Moral Play of IVyt and 
Science is an example : — 

/ / / /^ / / 

" Oh, help me now, poor witch, in this most heavy plight, 
/ / / / / / / 

And furnish me yet once again with Tediousness to fight," 

The six-stress iambic is better known, nowadays, by its name Alexan- 
drine; and it has most commonly found favor as the concluding line of 
the Spenserian stanza — (see below the selection from The Faerie 
Queen) — where it lends an air of sonority and finality to the eight pre- 
ceding five-stress verses. 

The anapcEstic hexameter has not been extensively used in English. 
One of the best examples is the verse of Browning's Abt Vogler, where 
the anapaest and iamb are interchangeably employed, and with an effect, 
now melodious, now reverberant. 

To the dactylic hexatneter special notice must be given, for in it some 
remarkable poems, such as Longfellow's Evangeline, Clough's Bothie of 
Tober-na-Vuolich, Kingsley's Andromeda in English, and Goethe's Her- 



THE RHYTHM OF VERSE: FOOT AND METRE Ivii 

7/iann and Dorothea in German, have been written. It consists of five 
dactyls and a trochee ; but for any one of the first four dactyls a spon- 
dee or trochee may be substituted : — 

" Over the | pallid | sea and the | silvery | mist of the | meadows." 

For two reasons, among many, the modern hexameter cannot be ex- 
pected to reproduce the music of the Latin from which it is adapted : 
first, because Latin verse is quantitative, and, consequently, capable of 
stately and subtle variation of movement, of acceleration and delay 
beyond the capability of accentual verse ; and second, because the Eng- 
lish hexameter is, and must remain, somewhat monotonously dactylic, if 
its pulse, or rhythmic beat, is to be readily caught by the reader. Such 
lines as 

/ \J \J / \J \J / KJ \J / WW / \J \J / \J 

" This is the | forest pri|meval ; but | where are the | hearts that be|neath it 

Leaped like the | roe, when he | hears in the | woodland the | voice of the | hunts- 

man ? " 

could hardly be pronounced other than metrically, but that is because 
the regular beat of the dactyl is maintained. Such regularity, however, 
becomes tedious in a very short time. The first four feet of Vergil's 
hexameter, on the other hand, may be either dactyls or spondees ; the 
fifth, which is by rule a dactyl, may for rare and specific reasons be a 
spondee ; and the sixth is either spondee or trochee. This capability 
of variation gives the line a marvellous elasticity. Take, for instance, 

the verse v^ \j \j \j \j \j ^y 

" Infan|dum re]gina jujbes renojvare do|lorem : " 

the heavy effect of the opening spondees is not impossible to reproduce 
in our accentual English verse ; but since our language is full of mono- 
syllables and iambic beats, it is hard to introduce spondaic cadences 
with such natural stress that the reader must pronounce the line with 
rhythmical accuracy. And unless the line of poetry is so written that 
the reader cannot but feel its metre, that line is not verse. Longfellow 
tries to introduce spondees into the hexameter, but they generally turn 
out trochees, and fail of the ponderosity desired. Frequently his dactyls 

are also forced. In such feet as " woodland the," " meanwhile the," the 
length of the second syllable cannot help spoiling the dactylic accent 
of the first. And such feet are common in Evangeline. Clough trying 
sometimes, and sometimes not, to observe the Latin rules of position 
(by which a vowel is lengthened when followed by two consonants), 
introduces spondees, but with no success other than to drive to distrac- 
tion those who are ignorant of Latin prosody, and some who are not. 



Iviii THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

Let the uninitiated try his hand at the following from The Bothie of 
Tober-na- VuoUch : — 

" Flower, fruit, farm-store, but sounds and sights of the country," 

or* 

" Half-awake servant-maids unfastening drowsy shutters, 
or, 

" Hampered as they haste, those running, these others maidenly tripping." 

It must, however, be acknowledged that Clough himself, Kingsley in 
his Andromeda^ Robinson Ellis in his translations from the Latin, and 
some others, have occasionally achieved success in the attempt to unite 
the leading features of the Latin time-element with those of English 
accent. The reader, curious in such matters, if he happen to possess 
a copy of Tlie Classic Myths in English Literature, will find there a 
translation of the Peleus and Thetis of Catullus, in which the attempt 
is made to reproduce in accentual verse, not the Latin feet so much 
as the pauses or cassural rhythms of the original. These are called 
equivalent hexameters. 

Closely allied with the Latin hexaineter is the Elegiac Verse used by 
Ovid. It consists of hexameters alternating with dactylic pentameters. 
The latter have the effect of a hexameter that has lost the last half of 
its third foot, and of its sixth ; for a pentameter is composed of two 
parts, each of which contains two dactyls and a half (a long syllable). 
Spondees may take the place of the dactyls in the first half, but not in 
the second. Though the metre has flexibility, it has not been much 
attempted in English. Tennyson has tried it in the poem called 
Elegiacs : — 

" Creeping through | blossomy | rushes and | bowers of | rose-blooming | bushes, 
Down by the | poplar | tall | rivulets | babble and | fall." 

Better elegiacs than Tennyson's have been produced by William Watson 
in his Hymn to the Sea ; and a most melodious modification of the metre 
is afforded by Swinburne's Hesperia. 

How Metres are varied. — It has already been intimated that 
although poetic form depends upon the regular recurrence of feet and 
of verses, the effect of such regularity would be wearisome if strictly 
maintained. The aim of artistic technique is not to reproduce the 
unyielding sameness of natural law alone, but also to display the mani- 
fold details and differences of garb through which Nature may reveal 
herself, by emphasizing the variety of her manifestations to certify their 
common spirit and significance. So poetic form depends for its artistic 
effect upon what appear to be variations from the rule as well as upon 
conformity. The more important departures from the normal or typical 



THE RHYTHM OF VERSE: FOOT AND METRE lix 

metre may be observed in the treatment of the pause, the movement, 
the metrical accent, and the syllable count. 

Variety of Pause. — Pauses are of three kinds : metrical, elocution- 
ary, and phrasal. The metrical compensates for a beat generally light 
which has been omitted for the purpose of breaking the monotony, or 
heightening the variety of the metrical structure, as when Sir Bedivere 
says, in the Passing of Arthur, 

/ / / / / 

"O me, I my king, | let pass | whatev|er will | 

/ / / \ \ / 

"^ Elves, I and the harm|less glajmour of | the field," 

where the light beat omitted before * Elves ' is compensated for partly 
by the metrical pause (A) before the word, partly by the extra light 
syllable in the second foot. (The division of the stress, indicated by 

\ \ 

the grave accent over 'mour' and ' of,' will be considered later.) A 

similar metrical pause is common in lines oi L' Allegro and // Penseroso: 

for instance, 

/ / / / 

"And oft as if her head she bowed, 
/ / / / 

y Stoop|ing through [ a flee|cy cloud," 

where the omission gives the line a trochaic eiTect. Since such omis- 
sion rarely occurs, however, without also emphasizing the syllable 
before or after, this kind of pause is closely allied to the next, the 
elocutionary. This pause is common in everyday conversation, and is a 
momentary silence more expressive perhaps than speech. It is some- 
times marked by the dropping of a syllable or even foot ; and, as will 
presently appear, it occurs largely in dramatic blank verse. The phrasal 
pause marks the logical divisions of the sentence or paragraph. It is 
a breathing-place in the expression of the thought, and is frequently 
called rhythmical pause, section pause, break, or caesura. It is not 
marked by a missing syllable. 

The elocutionary and phrasal pauses exist in all prose diction, and are 
therefore most frequently to be found in those kinds of poetry which 
represent the sequences of everyday speech ; narrative, drama, and 
reflective monologue. They occur, therefore, with great frequency in 
that species of English metre furthest removed from the regular rhythms 
of song and music, but best adapted to the expression of progressive 
thought, — I mean blatik verse. 

The Elocutionary Pause in Blank Verse. — The charm of blank 
verse resides largely in its ability to reconcile in a symphonious move- 
ment the conflicting claiins of the stereotyped metre (so homely with 
its five iambic feet that one would expect it to be repetitious and 



Ix THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

tedious) and of the fitful but steadily progressive cadence of everyday 
speech. Upon the cadence of prose diction — broad of sweep and free 
from restrictions of stress and quantity, — the iambic convention is 
imposed ; not, however, as a die pressed upon molten gold, but rather 
as a vestment of Coan simplicity thrown about an Aphrodite, — 
heightening the natural grace that it but half conceals. Because of 
this ability to blend convention and caprice, blank verse is well adapted 
to the metrical needs of long poems — such as the plays of Shakespeare 
and other dramatists, the Idylls of the King, Co»iiis, and Paradise Lost. 
Dramatic blank verse especially indulges in the elocutionary pause ; 
and where the pause occurs, a syllable or even two may be omitted, as, 
for instance, before an important affirmation, the name of one addressed 
in exclamation, an inquiry, an imperative request, a command, as, 

" Come, Sus|sex, / | let's in; | we shall | have more." 

where even a missing stressed syllable is compensated for by the pause 
that precedes a command. The pause may occur at the transition from 
one form of utterance to another, where a word is suppressed because it 
goes without saying, or where a burst of laughter intervenes or a sigh 
or a gulp of rage, as when the emperor, in Greene's Friar Bacon, out- 
raged by the fare set before him, cries : — 

/ / / / /■ 

"And give | us cates | ^fit | for coun|try swains; " 

or, as in Marlowe's Faustiis, to indicate the silence of embarrassment : — 

/ / / / / 

"V Par|don me sweet, I V I | forgot | myself." 

Here the pause after 'sweet' is elocutionary ; that before 'Pardon,' metri- 
cal. Still a third kind of elocutionary pause is used to indicate the 
silence after an outcry. I do not mean to say that these devices obtain 
only in dramatic and narrative verse. We find them also in lyrical, as, 
for instance, in Tennyson's 

/ / / 

" . Break, . break, . break, 

/ / / 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea," 

where their force is easy to determine. A knowledge of their quality 
in utterance is indispensable in the reading of poetry, especially of 
blank verse. It is by virtue of such knowledge that our best poets 
introduce what seem to be irregularities of foot or accent, or substitu- 
tions of what seem to be an alien rhythm, trochaic, dactylic, or amphi- 



I 



THE RHYTHM OF VERSE: FOOT AND METRE Ixi 

brachic, as the case may be, — the despair of ignorant readers and 
pedantic critics, but the delight of Parnassus. 

The Metrical Pause in Blank Verse. — In narrative verse, such 
as that of Paradise Lost or the Idylls of the King, the pause may per- 
haps more frequently be regarded as existing, not to indicate a gap 
through which — as in the elocutionary — action or thought has 
escaped, but to compensate for a missing light beat, purely metrical, as 
in the line, 



A 



/ / / y / 

By I the wa|ters of life | where'er | they sat." 



This opens with a pause for the light beat, and the single-syllabled foot 
is further compensated for by the presence of an extra light syllable in 
the third foot. Such compensation is acceptable to the ear ; for iamb and 
anapaest are of the same quality, the rhythm of each being of the kind 
that ascends toward the stress. Many authorities would, I know, intro- 
duce the line with two trochees, thus : — 

/ / / / jT 

" By the | waters | of life | where'er | they sat." 

But I do not think that the metrical ear tolerates the yoking of rhythms 
diametrically opposed in nature. That would be rag-tiine. The charm 
of these openings, sometimes called trochaic or inverted, proceeds rather 
from the illusion of a changed rhythm than from the actual substitution 
of the descending trochee for the ascending iamb. A metrical (or some- 
times elocutionary) pause is substituted for the first light beat ; but the 
ascending rhythm of the line is reasserted by a succeeding anapaest. 
In Cotmis, the eighth line, 

" Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being," 

may be scanned with an opening trochee, but it seems more congenial 
to both rhythm and speech that a pause making for emphasis should 
precede " strive," thus : — 

" ^ Strive | to keep up | etc," 

The Phrasal or Ceesural Pause. — In all poetry, as in prose, it is 
natural for the reader to pause within the sentence at the close of each 
section of thought. In the lyric, in which the measures are generally of 
forms shorter than pentameter, the pause frequently coincides with the 
end of the verse. But in blank verse and the unrhymed hexameter the 
thought-movement swings along from line to line, and the pause falls, 
as a rule, not at the end of a verse, but somewhere within it. 

In Hexameter. — The grace of Latin hexameter depends largely 
upon a skilful variation of this phrasal or cassural pause ; and a few words 



Ixii THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

of exposition may, therefore, be acceptable. Any break caused by the 
ending of a word within the foot was a ccesiira ; but the ccesjtral 
pause indicated a rest in the sense as well. If the caesural pause fell 
within the second foot it was called trihemimeral, and was frequently 
followed by a pause in the fourth foot as well, called hephthemimeral, 
thus (the pause indicated by a dotted line) : — 

\J \J \J KJ V^ \J 

" Inde to|ro ; pater | .^-Enelas | sic | orsus ab | alto." 

But its favorite position was penthemimeral, that is, in the third foot, 
either after the long syllable or arsis, when it was called masculine, or 
in the thesis (that is to say, between the two short syllables of the dactyl), 
when it was known as feminine. Similar rules obtain in English dac- 
tylic hexameter. The first line of Evangeline has a feminine caesura 
after 'primeval,' a pause in the third foot, penthemimeral. The 
second line has two caesural pauses, both masculine, one in the second 
and one in the fourth foot : — 

/ / / / / / 

" Bearded with | moss ; and in | garments | green, j indis|tinct in the | twihght." 

The third line has a masculine caesura in the third foot. These 
phrasal pauses, falling not at the end but in the middle of metrical feet, 
serve to vary what might otherwise lapse into singsong. 

In Blank Verse. — So also in blank verse, and in the best heroic 
pentameter. The opening lines of Connis show an interweaving of two 
distinct rhythms, that of the iambic metre, which is supposed to be 
regularly divided, and that of the phrase, running over from one line 
to the next, and taking breath at the sense-pause, as it would in the 
larger movement of prose : — 

"Before | the starjry thresh | old •; of | Jove's court 
My man|sion is | \ where those | immor|tal shapes 
Of bright j aer|ial spir|its | i live | inspher'd 
In re|gions mild | \ of calm | and sejrene air." 

It will be noticed that the phrasal or caesural pause does not neces- 
sarily fall in the middle of a foot, as in Latin hexameter, but it is well 
that it should occasionally fall there, and it is essential that it should 
subtly vary its position. In English iambic pentameter the ccesura is 
masculine if it fall after an accented syllable ; feminine if after an unac- 
cented syllable. Of the latter there are two kinds, epic and lyric. The 
epic ccEsura falls after the first syllable of a substituted anapjest. As 
in the Passing of Arthur, line 104, 

/ / / \j \j / / 

" Look in upon the batjtle ; and in | the mist." 



THE RHYTHM OF VERSE: FOOT AND METRE Ixiii 

The lyy-ic cccsura occurs just before the stressed syllable of a substi- 
tuted anapaest, / /WW / / / 

" . Martial Planta|genet, ; Henlry's high-minded son," 
or of an iamb, ^ / w / s \ / 

" And secret pasjsions \ lajbour'd in her breast." 

Variety of Movement. — I said above that the metrical beat was 
always supposed to be maintained. That it is not slavishly respected 
will further appear when we consider the possible variations in stress 
and in the numbering of syllables within the line. Here suffice it to 
say that the requirements of metre and of phrase, while they combine 
to produce the progression of verse, cannot exist side by side without 
continual compromise. They combine by a process of mutual surrender. 
The reader knows that the foot scheme demands recognition of its fixed 
beat : in reading the poem, however, he follows, also, the larger group- 
ing of the phrase, balancing, as it were, the claims of foot with those of 
sense. To blend the metrical or foot movement with that of phrase or 
thought, he suspends the former at times, imagining it but not enforcing 
it, then restores it to its function. Just as if one should for good reason 
raise the flood-gates of a mill-dam: the stream sweeps down its natural 
channel, till the gates are again dropped into place. But there is also 
interwoven with the metrical and phrasal groupings — to produce the 
complex movement of verse — an elocutionary word-group which must 
not be overlooked. Of the last there may be two or three units in a 
single line, separated by pauses of utterance sometimes almost imper- 
ceptible. If we indicate the foot-divisions by vertical lines, the phrasal 
by vertical dots as before, and the elocutionary (such as the sensitive 
reader would instinctively observe for purposes of emphasis and modu- 
lation) by a line drawn underneath (by an arrow, when continued to the 
next verse), the three groupings or movements may be presented to the 
eye as follows : — 

"Thus Sa|tan i talk|ing to | his near|est mate | , 
With head | uplift | above | the wave | , \ and eyes | 



That spark|iing blazed | , \ his oth|er parts | besides ' 
y Prone | on the flood | , \ extend |ed long | and large, 
Lay floatjing ma|ny a rood | j ; in bulk | as huge | 
As whom I the fajbles name | of mon|strous size | , 
Titajnianj or | Earth-born | that warred | on Jove | . . .' 

Now, the underscored units are what might be called the feet of the 
natural or prose utterance : multiform in accent and quantity. In the 
first line the prose feet run w / w | / w | \j\j /\j \ / , but the stresses 



Ixiv THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

of these four units, different as they seem from any regular verse- 
rhythm, coincide with four of the iambic stresses of the prescribed 

/ 
metre. Thus, while the four elocutionary, or prose, feet, Tims Satan, 

talking, to his nearest, mate, suggest an independent tune or cadence, 
they conform (like an alto to a soprano in music) to all but one of the 
stresses of the primary cadence of the iambic pentameter. And, in fact, 
the remaining iambic stress is rather suspended (in imagination) over 
the whole of the short-syllabled foot ' ing to,' than forced by the reader 
upon the light syllable ' to' where it metrically belongs. It may be said, 
indeed, that that stress is actually postponed, and added to the next 
foot. That he can vary these elocutionary units or prose feet end- 
lessly for vocal effect without obliterating the accentual uniformity of 
the iambic metre by the side of which they pace ; still more that he can 
muster the regular iambic and the irregular prose foot into the larger 
phalanx of the logical or phrasal movement, is one of the especial merits 
of the " mighty mouthed inventor of harmonies," the author of Paradise 
Lost. 

Enjambement. — To the heroic couplet, as well as to blank verse, 
the overflow of thought from one line to the next appears to be essen- 
tial. The rhymes alone are like a pair of cymbals: when they have 
clashed everything seems to have been said. But Chaucer displayed 
considerable skill in running the phrase from one line and even couplet 
to the next. Witness, for instance, the enjambement, as this device is 
called, of the first fifty lines of the Prologue. The dovetailing of verses 
is not overdone : the caesural or phrasal pauses are so variously shifted, 
and the occasional compensatory, or metrical, pauses so cunningly 
inserted, that the correspondence of rhymes, when it occurs, produces 
the effect rather of bridle-bells jingling in a whistling wind than of the 
aforesaid cymbals. From that day till that of Marlowe, and then again 
of Waller (about the middle of the seventeenth century), heroic coup- 
lets moved more or less in a strait-jacket, the spirit never exceeding 
the couplet, sometimes not even the line itself. After Waller, — Dryden 
and Pope restored the end-stopped line and couplet, making of it a 
highly polished vehicle of wit, or weapon of satire, but altogether too well 
regulated for the employ of unsophisticated poetry. The Rape of the Lock, 
the Dunciad, and Absalom and Achitofihel cdiXxy the couplet to its climax 
of artificial excellence. In Keats and other poets of the nineteenth 
century the phrasal movement again resumes an unimpeded progress. 

Variety of Stress. — While each of the words used in prose has its 
fixed logical accent, that which enables it to impress its meaning upon 
the hearer, not every word retains its prose accent in poetry. Some- 



THE RHYTHM OF VERSE: FOOT AND METRE Ixv 

times the stress which falls upon a word in verse is determined by met- 
rical reasons, sometimes by rhetorical or syntactical. The metrical 
stress frequently falls, or appears to fall, upon syllables lacking accent, 
as for instance upon such words as ' and,' ' of,' ' the,' in insignificant 
positions. 

" Of man's first disobedience and the fruit" 

appears to require a stress upon 'and.' So also this line from the 
Passing of Arthur, 

" Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash " — 

and it is possible that the reader should lay the stress there for his 
mind's ear. But as a rule the necessity of stressing such a word in 
utterance may be obviated by observing a metrical or an elocutionary 
pause before it. The first line of Paradise Lost must be scanned as it 
should be read, 

" Of man's | ^ first | disobeldience / | and the fruit," 

the elocutionary pause before ' first ' being compensated for by the addi- 
tional emphasis laid upon that word, and by the succeeding anapaest. 
The pause at the lacuna, after ' disobedience,' is compensated for by the 
two-syllabled unaccented portion of the succeeding anapaest. Similarly, 
the line from Tennyson demands an elocutionary pause after ' breakings,' 
as if a long syllable were missing ; the following ' and ' is then gathered 

up mto the succeeding anapaest, " Shield-break|ings, / | and the clash." 
As I have said before, the attempt to avoid stressing an unaccented 
syllable accounts largely for the scansion of certain blank verses with a 
trochaic opening, or with a trochee after the cassural pause. But it is 
not necessary in such a line as this from the Passing of Arthur, 

"^Shocks, I and the splin[tering spear, | the hard | mail hewn," 

either to lay the accent on ' and,' or to make a trochee of '■ shocks 
and.' Tennyson intended the reader to make an elocutionary pause 
after 'shocks' and then to hurry on to the 'splintering.' So also 
Shakespeare means us to emphasize ' books ' in the following line, by 
pausing before it : — 

""^ Tongues | in the trees | \ y books | in the run]ning brooks." 

Jacques would not have dreamed of accenting the first ' in ' or of read- 
ing 'books in' a trochee. I suppose that sometimes, however, it is 
more reasonable that a pyrrhic (w w) should receive half a stress on each 



Ixvi THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

of its syllables or a full stress on the second than that the line should 
be read with a rhetorical pause. Such may be the case in 

"The best | (and of | the prin|ces some | were such)." 

This is especially true when the syllable to be stressed has a secondary 

accent of its own, as in 

/ / / \j \j / 

"To furjther this | Achitjophel | unites." 

Accents, Hovering and Wrenched. — The metrical stress is fre- 
quently divided equally between the two syllables of a' foot. In the first 
line of Lycidas. 

" Yet once | more, O | ye Lau|rels, and | once more," 

a heavy stress hovers over both syllables of the second foot, and of the 
fifth ; the unaccented syllables of the fourth are pronounced slowly, 
as if they divided with difficulty the little stress that they can win from 
the 'and.' This is the hovering Acc^xvi. When it stresses alike two 

heavy syllables, like 'more O,' it may be called spondaic; when it 

hangs as if holding its breath over two light syllables, like * rels and,' 
it may be called deferred. And the reader will find that the foot with 
a deferred stress is usually followed by a foot of heavy syllables, spon- 

daic, like the final ' once more,' upon which that lighter stress seems 
to fall, as if atoning for its reluctance. When the stress is metrically 

thrown on the wrong syllable of a word, as in ' my ain countree,' the 

accent is said to be wrenched. Milton seems to use the wrenched 

/ / / 

accent with some frequency, e.g., in Co/nus, 'without,' 'serene,' 'su- 

preme,' ' extreme,' ' coinplete.' But since he often indulged in lines in 
which a pyrrhic foot was compensated for by a succeeding spondee, 
such a line as 

"yShe I that hath that | is clad | in com[plete steel" 

y ^ 

may be read with a suspended or deferred stress over 'in com.' Both 
syllables of the succeeding foot are heavily accented. 

Variation in Number of Syllables. — That a variety is sometimes 
introduced into blank verse by the substitution of trisyllabic feet for dis- 
syllabic has been already remarked. It is, however, but rarely that we 
find in a line of blank verse more than three anapaests in the place of 
iambs ; indeed, few lines which indulge in the license admit as many as 



THE RHYTHM OF VERSE: FOOT AND METRE Ixvii 

two. Anapaestic substitutions abound in Shakespeare, but Milton subjects 
them to careful rules ; so also Wordsworth and Tennyson. As to other 
kinds of verse, it would be useless to attempt any rule other than that 
feet to be interchangeable must be of the same kind of rhythm, trochee, 
dactyl, and anti-paeon, descending ; iamb, anapaest, and paeon, ascending. 
Extra Syllables. — In a line of descending rhythm an extra syl- 
lable frequently occurs at the beginning. This is called anacrusis. 
It will be noticed that such a syllable is unstressed and that it may 
generally be joined to the stressed syllable at the end of the line pre- 
ceding, so as to complete with it a trochee or, if there be two of these 
extra syllables, a dactyl. For instance, in The Last Chantey, where 
the metre is of trochees, dactyls, and paeons : — 

" Thus said the | Lord in the | vault above the | cherubim, 

/ KJ KJ \J / KJ \y \J / \J KJ \j / 

Calling to the | angels and the | souls in their de|gree : 

\j / '^ / w / 

' Lo f I earth has | passed &\way 
\j Kj / \j y \j / 

On the \ smoke of | Judgment | Day. 

Kj \j / ^y \y \j / \j \j \j y Kj \j Kj / 

That our \ word may be es|tablished shall we | gather up the | sea ? ' " 

where the extra light syllables at the beginning of the fourth and fifth 
lines are examples of anacrusis, but the anacrusis in each case completes 

/ rs / 

the foot begun at the end of the line preceding: as 'gree Lo,' 'way 

on the,' ' Day that our.' Of the missing syllable at the end of the 
fifth line something will be said later. 

In a Hne of ascending rhythm, especially of blank verse, an extra 
syllable is sometimes adroitly inserted before the cassural pause, 

/ / / / / / 

as in " To Canterbury | with full devout corage," or in " y^^ Master 

Burden \ when shall we see you at Henley?" In the latter line the 
extra syllable would appear to compensate for that which is lacking 
before the stress-syllable opening. The caesura in each case is of the 
kind already described as epic. At the end of an iambic line, as in the 
Hne last quoted, an extra syllable will also frequently be found. This, 
called the feminine ending, lends elasticity to the verse ; and it is 
interesting to note that the earlier masters of blank verse — Marlowe, 
Greene, Shakespeare, and their contemporaries — used it with increasing 
frequency as they gained mastery of technique. As an example of this 
hypercataledic, or feminine, ending, may be cited a line from Comus : — 

/ / / / / 

" Be it not done in pride or in presump|tion." 



Ixviii THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

Extra syllables are sometimes reduced to the measure of the line by 
elision, as 

" Th(e) estaat, th(e) array, the nombr(e) and eek the cause," — 

and so frequently in Chaucer ; or by apocope, as when a syllable is 
dropped within a word, for instance, 'fi'ry,' 'friV,' 'pow'r'; or by 
synaloepha, if the vowel at the end of a word is not elided, but pro- 
nounced with the vowel at the beginning of the next, as in '• to avoid ' 
(tvvavoid). Slurring, indeed, of which all these are species, obtains 
commonly in verse as in conversation. 

Lacking Syllables. — The opposite of slurring or synaeresis, is 
dicBresis. By means of this a line which appears to lack a syllable is 
sometimes expanded to its proper measure ; a syllable like your, for 
instance, may be broken into two, yon-r ; or a long vowel, like the first 
of A-//ieu, be prolonged so as to take the place of two syllables. 

A lacking syllable may also be compensated for, as we have already 
seen, by a metrical or elocutionary pause in almost any foot of a blank 
verse. Much more frequently, of course, in case of a light syllable than 
of a stressed. The practice obtains in all kinds of verse. A line like 

/ / / / / 

" V Twenty bokes, clad in blak or reed," 

which lacks a syllable at the beginning, is said to be truncated. It is 
sometimes also called acephalous, that is, without a head. A line which 
lacks a syllable, or syllables, at the end (and such is often found in verse 
of descending rhythm) is catalectic. In Arnold's Rugby Chapel 

/ \j / \j \j / 

" Coldly, sadly descends V 

KJ / KJ / ^ \J / 

The I autumn-evening. The field V 

/ KJ \j / \J \j / 
Strewn with its dank yellow drifts O " 

is trochaic trimeter catalectic, with dactylic substitutions. The cata- 

lexis of the first line is compensated for by the anacrusis at the begin- 

/ 
ning of the next, 'scends the.' Not so, however, with the catalexis 

of the second line, 'field.' Of this nature is the omission of a syllable 

at the end of the fifth line of the stanza from Kipling's The Last 

Chantey quoted a few paragraphs above. 

8. TONALITY IN VERSE: MELODY 

We have so far been considering verse as characterized by its move- 
ment. Hence the preceding discussion of rhythm, and of metre, which 
is the measure of rhythm in verse. But verse, like all other arts, de- 






TONALITY IN VERSE: MELODY Ixix 

pends upon the material in which it works as well as upon the manner 
or rhythmic order of the working. The manner, or proportion of archi- 
tecture, is itself conformable to the conditions of the stone in which it 
works ; so also of sculpture. The aesthetic manner of painting depends 
in part upon the quality of the surface to be painted and of the pig- 
ments that are used. The rhythm of choristic dancing and of dramatic 
acting, or of oratorical delivery, is determined, or at any rate modified, 
by the possibilities of the human figure. The rhythm of music shares, 
as well as shapes, the properties of pure sound ; and of verse, the 
properties of sound symbolizing thought, that is to say, of word-sounds. 
The quality of word-sounds, their tone-color, as the Germans, from the 
analogy of painting, have called it, or their tonality, as we may name it, 
is therefore of vital significance. From it, as controlled by rhythm, 
proceed those sequences which figure as the melody of verse, and those 
correspondences or rhymes which figure as its harmony. 

Melody. — We shall consider first the properties of word-sounds as 
they strike the ear singly, and then as they combine in sequences and 
contribute to the melody of speech. After that, we shall pass to the con- 
sideration of the larger correspondences of verses, — rhymes, stanzas, 
and structural forms — which constitute the harmony of poetic tech- 
nique. It is an essential of poetry that it should, by its sound, so far as 
possible, echo or suggest the sense of the thought underlying. Some- 
times the verse should glide from the lips of the reader ; sometimes it 
should leap ; sometimes the vocables should be liquid, sometimes slow 
or difficult of articulation ; sometimes explosive. Some consonants are 
smoother or more resonant than others, some have an affiliation for 
others, combine readily with them ; and vice versa. The poet has, or 
should have, a sensitive ear. He has learned, usually by experience, 
the value of the consonants in themselves and in sequence; the quali- 
ties of vowels, also, — which are longest, fullest, richest in tone, which 
are short and obscure, which high-pitched or low, — and by what de- 
vices various effects may be produced, pleasing, diversified, tedious, or 
disagreeable to the ear. A verse may have rhythm, such as 

/ / / / 

" Miiab Hickgas zigzagged townward," 

and still lack grace. That the student should appreciate the reasons 
for the fluidity or reluctance of verse is much more important than we 
ordinarily imagine. The attempt to imitate natural sounds by using 
words such as ' buzz,'' ' boom,' ' crackle,' which appear to recall them, is 
specifically known as onomatopoeia. But onomatopoeia applies in a 
broader and more artistic manner to the suggestion of things perceived 
by any sense, and of mood and movement as well. 



Ixx THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

Consonants, Hard and Soft. — The consonants fall into two 
classes, according as they are produced with or without any resonance 
of the voice. If we try to produce or prolong the consonant z, r buzz- 
ing sound made by the voice is distinctly heard. It is a voiced conso- 
nant. 6", on the other hand, is a hissing, formed by the breath alone 
as it passes between the point of the tongue and the upper gums. It 
is a breath consonant, and yields a sharper and harder sound than 2. 
Similarly p., t, k, will be found to be breath consonants ; they are pro- 
nounced without any resonance of the voice, and are thin and hard ; 
while b, d, and ^ (as mget), which correspond with them respectively, 
are capable of resonant prolongation, that is to say, are voiced and, in 
comparison with them, full and soft. 

There are ten hard or breath consonant sounds in English, p, t. k, 
wh,/, th, s, sh, ch, and h. With the first nine correspond respectively 
the soft or voiced consonant sounds b, d, g, w, v, dh, z, zh, and/. 
{S and /must be reckoned as z and 71 when so pronounced.) There 
are, in addition, six other soft consonants, /;/, n, /, r,y, and }ig. In the 

lines, 

" Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 
Beloved from pole lo pole ! 
To Mary Queen the praise be given! 
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven, 
That slid into my Soul " — 

the thought is of comfort, and this Coleridge aims to express by sounds 
of soothing effect. It will not at all surprise the reader if he examines 
the consonants of this passage, to find that only sixteen are hard ; and 
that of the remaining forty-nine ten are transitional from hard to soft, 
like si in 'j/eep,' or from soft to hard, like tit in 'se«/,' while thirty- 
nine are altogether resonant and soft. 

Now, since not only our poetry, but our language, aims in general at 
ease of utterance, we shall have to turn to verses that are deliberately 
not expressive of the smooth and soothing, if we would find a super- 
abundance of hard consonants. Like a wild-cat mad with wounds, 
Horatius 

" Sprang right at Astur's face ; 

Through teeth, and skull, and helmet 
So fierce a thrust he sped. 

The good sword stood a hand-breadth out 
Behind the Tuscan's head." 

In the first, second, and third lines, those descriptive of the action, 
Macaulay has used twenty-four hard or breath consonants to only 
sixteen of the soft, — a proportion of three to two. This excess of hard 
consonants for a purpose is all the more convincing when we reflect 



TONALITY IN VERSE: MELODY Ixxi 

that of the twenty-five possible consonant sounds in English, fifteen, 
that is to say, three-fifths, are voiced and soft in character. 

Consonants, Explosive and Prolonged. — Still another distinction 
between consonant and consonant is of importance as affecting the 
grace or fluidity of a line of verse. Such letters as p, b, t, d, k, g, 
are made by closing the mouth passage and then exploding it with the 
breath. These are called stopped (or explosive) consonants. The 
sound ceases with the explosion ; and the effect is sudden and incisive. 
But the liquids, /, m, n, r, ng, and all the other consonants, f, v, %u, 
s, 2, k, and certain combinations, such as sk, th, wh, ch, j, are formed by 
allowing the breath to escape gradually through a passage of the mouth 
or nose : they may be indefinitely prolonged, and they produce a linger- 
ing impression upon the ear. In the melHfluous stanza quoted above 
from the Ancient Mariner, there are forty-seven prolonged (or con- 
tinuant) consonants and only eighteen explosives. 

It is not at all surprising that a verse which aims to express the 
gradual, gracious, and gentle, should employ more continuant con- 
sonants than explosives. It would indeed require an effort for the 
verse not to do so, for there are three times as many consonants of the 
continuant kind?is, of the other; but that an explosive thought will, so 
far as the language permits, avail itself of words of an explosive sound 
appears beyond doubt when we examine verses expressive of haste, 
contempt, or anger. In those three lines, recounting the fierce thrust of 
Horatius, the explosive consonants rise so far above their ordinary 
proportion that there is almost one for every two of the more tranquil 
kind. So, also, when Milton, excoriating lean and flashy songs, says 

•^ " Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw," 

the verse becomes more than half explosive in sound alone ; and that 
in spite of the fact that the alphabet affords only one explosive to three 
continuants. The words are difficult of utterance. The prominence 
of the gutturals in '^rate' and 'scrannel,' the collocation (awkward to 
articulate) of hard and soft consonants, as in ' their j-crannel,' 
'■wretched str-A.yN^ the presence of a hiss in four out of the five feet, the 
nasal quality of the pivotal sound an — all these factors contribute to the 
unpleasant effect : to say nothing of the monotone of vowels in the first 
half of the line, and the quality of the only sound that is both long and 
open, aw — saved to mark the contemptuous utterance with which the 
line concludes. Difficulties of utterance, similarly subtle, purposely 
beset the opening of Lycidas : — 

" I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, 
And with forced fingers rude 
Shatter your leaves." 



Ixxii THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

The lines teem with harsh and explosive consonants, so ordered as to 
make the passage from one to the other laborious. 

The gentle utterance which may be obtained from liquids, alone or in 
combination with other consonants, hardly needs exemplification. 'Me, 
Goddess, bring' — prays Milton's Man of Thought, 

" ' To arched walks of twilight groves, 
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, 
Of pine or monumental oak.' " 

Almost every other syllable is a liquid note. The more pleasing of 
these effects are produced when the liquids / and r combine with the 
lip consonants p, b, f/i, ivh, w, and to some extent f and v ; or more 
generally when any of the liquids (/, w, ;/, r, )ig) combine with the 
voiced consonants (such as b, d, g, v, 2) rather than the breathed (such 
as p, t, k, f\ s). Note, for instance, the often quoted 

" Murmur of innumerable bees ;" 

or the lines in the Passing of Arthur, 

" I heard the ripple washing in the reeds. 
And the wild water lapping on the crag ; " 

or that stanza of Dryden's Song for SL Cecilia's Day, where 

" The soft complaining flute 
In dying notes discovers 
The woes of hopeless lovers 
Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute ; " 

or the fifth stanza of Alexander'' s Feast. We must, however, guard 
against the assumption that particular consonants produce always the 
same sensation, smooth or harsh. The hissing effect of " scrannel 
pipes of wretched straw " was, for instance, noticed above, but the hard 
or breathed s, when cunningly associated with pleasing vowel sounds, 
may also delight the ear. It is used with an effect decidedly sensuous 
in St. Agnes'' Eve, 

" Jellies soother than the creamy curd, 
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon, 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferred 
From Fez, and spiced dainties, every one, 
From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon ; " 

and with musical effect in Lycidas, when 

" Entertain him all the saints above 
In solemn troops and sweet societies. 
That sing, and singing in their glory move. 
And wipe the tears forever from his eyes." 



TONALITY IN VERSE: MELODY Ixxiii 

Still it must be granted that the English language suffers in musical 
quality because of the necessary recurrence of the sibilant in verb and 
noun inflections. Poets use it when they can't help it, or when it sub- 
serves a purpose. But they generally avoid using it at the end of one 
word and the beginning of the next. 'Jellies soother' is redeemed 
only by a pause between the sibilants. 

Vowels. — The vowel sounds may be classified according to the rela- 
tive time of enunciation, as long (the sounds italicized in father, fi^te, 
f^^t, p^le, pi^t'l, b«rn, and the diphthongs in Vau\, t/nie, h^;/se, twne, 
coixi), or short (the sounds italicized in sluggard, pat, p^t, f/t, p^t, p«Il, 
b«n); or they may be distinguished according to the quality of the sound, 
as open {e.g., father, Van\, ^o\., man), middle {e.g.., pcle, b//rn, fate, g<?t), 
and closed {e.g., ^oo\., p«t, ft'^ft, f/t). The diphthongs slide in sound 
from open to closed. 

Kinds of Vowel Sequence. — A succession of vowels of one kind, 
long or short, or open or closed, is tiresome. Verse, therefore, eschews 
such sequences save when a monotone, or some such effect, is desired : 
it, on the other hand, like all art, delights in deploying the variety of its 
elements, emphasizing the manifold nature of its parts, — while subor- 
dinating them to the effect of the whole, coordinating the units in a 
unity higher still. It would be futile to enunciate any exclusive princi- 
ple in accordance with which poets produce their diverse effects of 
vowel sound ; suffice it to say that from the fifty or more vowel sounds 
recorded by writers on English phonetics, a marvellous variety of com- 
binations may be produced even by one who knows nothing of the classi- 
fications into long, short ; open, middle, and closed. Though the 
principles of vowel sequence in verse may be hard to determine, some of 
the kinds may readily be described. Four of these I have noticed as 
used with significant effect. 

The first depends upon rcpetiiio)i of sounds of like quality. An 
effect of grandeur is produced by the recurrence of long or open vowels, 
as in the apostrophe in CJiilde Hm'old., beginning 

" O Rome ! my country, city of the Soul ! 
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
Lone mother of dead empires ! and control " — 

and just the opposite effect results from the predominance of short, or 
of closed, vowels as in the line that follows the preceding, 

" /n their sh/^t br^izsts their p^tty mi%exy." 

In the kingly description in Tint cm Abbey of the Presence, 
" Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. 
And the round ocean and the living air, 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man," 



Ixxiv THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

the open sounds increase in frequency and dominance as the thought 
gathers force. This may be called the crescendo. The repetition of 
closed vowels and shorter sounds increasing in frequency produces 
of course a crescendo of the converse kind. As when the poet speaks of 

" The burthen of the mystery 
In which the heavy and the weary weight 
Of all this unintelligible world 
Is lightened." 

I know no example of the monotone more expressive of the weary round 
than the lines in Tennyson's Lotos Eaters., 

" Most weary seemed the sea, weary the oar, 
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam," etc. 

where even the rhymes, instead of interweaving sounds of appropriate 
dissimilarity, fall into assonance. 

The second kind of vowel sequence depends upon alternation, as in 

" While the still morn went out with sandals gray," 

where the regular variation of short, or of closed, syllables (like ' still ') 
with long, and open (like ' morn"), conveys an effect of self-restrained 
but sweeping and graceful motion. 

The third, depending upon a pivotal vowel, is much affected by 
Milton. Sometimes for five or ten lines together the ascent to, and 
descent from, a central vowel sound, seems to be the guiding principle 
of quality or tone. In the following from // Penseroso such a vowel 
obtains about the middle of each verse ; it stands forth unique in sound 
and importance : — 

" And let some strcnge mysterious dream, 
Wave at his w/ngs in airy stream 
Of lively portraiture displayed." 

I should call this the jewelled line. The note struck by the central 
vowel is not repeated on either side. The next line of this passage, 
however, reverts to the sequence of alternation : one sequence overdone 
would lose its savor. 

In the fourth of these vowel systeins, one sound-series is balanced or 
echoed by another, like in quality, but opposed in sense and separated 
in position, as in Byron's description of the Dying Gladiator, 

" his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony." 

"^gon/" recalls the sound of '■^ man\y brow," but yields an opposite 
sense ; just as " c^;/quers " repeats in sound and parries in meaning 
the force of " Cf«sents." 



TONALITY IN VERSE: MELODY Ixxv 

From what has been said it will, I think, be evident that poets avoid 
the repetition of the same vowel tone in successive syllables unless the 
repetition has some end to subserve, — because an ordered variety of 
component sounds enriches the music of verse. Allowing for a some- 
what wider latitude, the principle holds true also of consonants. The 
assonance of the i sounds, and the alliteration of the /'s in 

" Softly on my eyelids /aid," 

are not agreeable because the component parts in each case are almost 
one in position as well as in sound. 

Pitch. — The dependence of poetic effect upon the proper sequence 
of vowel sounds is to some extent accounted for by the fact that vowels 
differ in pitch as well as in length and quality. That ' feet ' takes longer 
to say than ' fit,' is evident, and that ' man ' is broader and richer in 
tone than ' men ' ; but we do not often stop to think that each vowel 
sound is more easily and naturally uttered upon a certain appropriate 
musical note than upon any other note higher or lower; that, in other 
words, the widening or contraction of the cords of the throat to pro- 
duce a vowel sound will, if the sound is prolonged, determine the note 
on which that vowel can most readily be sung. So that the notes 
appropriate to the whole series of vowels would form a gamut. Every 
arrangement of vowels, then, produces a sequence of impressions upon 
the ear corresponding in a faint degree to that of melody in music. 
Science has not yet conclusively registered the subtle melody of vowel 
sounds ; but that distinctive properties of pitch exist for the several 
vowels is a fact, and upon it depends, in part, what we call the modula- 
tion of speech. Close / as in 'fit' is said, for instance, to have the 
highest pitch and clearest sound; a, as in 'father,' to be most readily 
uttered halfway down the gamut, and ?/, as in ' full,' to be the lowest 
of the vowel sounds. The sensitive ear cannot but note the modulation 
produced by the ups and downs of the voice when such lines as 

" To walk the studious cloisters pale 
And love the high embowed roof " 

are read with respect for the natural pitch of the vowels. Such modula- 
tion, or inflection, is of course instinctive. To the subtle and dehcate 
sequence of pitch by vowel sounds there is also added in the reading 
of verse the elocutionary element of intonation. That also is, or should 
be, instinctive. The rising tone with which we conclude an interroga- 
tion or a warning, the depression of the voice at the end of an answer, 
and the combination of rise and fall in exclamations of surprise or 
contempt, are, of course, natural auxiliaries to the sense ; but they and 



Ixxvi THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

numerous others of their kind when introduced into verse demand con- 
tinuous variation of pitch, and so contribute to the melody of the poem. 

9. TONALITY IN VERSE: HARMONY; RHYME 

Harmony. — As melody in verse depends upon the sequence of 
vowel and consonant sounds, their quality or tone, their musical pitch, 
and the modulations of the voice that naturally distinguish impressive 
and emotive utterance, so harmony in verse is produced by the corre- 
spondence of sounds ; that is to say, by rhyme. As harmony in music 
results from coordinating melodies, or subordinating two or more — 
alto, tenor, and bass — to a dominant air, so in verse it results from 
coordinating or subordinating, in two or more verses, the sounds occur- 
ring at certain regular intervals. 

Rhyme. — This correspondence is rhyme; and in English it is of 
three principal kinds : end-rhyme, or rhyme properly so-called, allitera- 
tion or initial rhyme, and assonance or middle-rhyme. In end-rhyme 
the sound of two or more words is the same in the last accented vowel 
and all that follows. The consonant sound preceding the last accented 
vowel must not be the same in the words concerned. The ' ess ' in 
'possess' and 'confess' constitutes the rhyme. The initial s and/ 
avert the monotony of identical syllables. ' Possess ' and ' recess ' would 
not be allowed as rhyme in English, because the last syllables are 
identical, though it would be in French. But combinations of con- 
sonants with r, or /, s, or //, producing distinct consonant sounds, afford 
sufficient variety. ' Cry ' and ' try,'' ' slow ' and ' blow,'' ' ^-/ale ' and ' /(7le,' 
'.y/iare' and '■thtvc,'' '7fV^ere' and '//are,' are good rhymes. It is not suffi- 
cient that the spelling of the rhymed portions be the same ; the sounds 
after the initial consonant must be identical. ' Scorn ' is not a correct rhyme 
for ' torn,' but ' morn ' is. The spelling (which in our modern English 
by no means indicates the sound) has, indeed, nothing to do with the 
rhyme. ' Buy ' rhymes with ' nigh,' and ' Cholmondeley ' with ' comely.' 
English phoneticians like Mr. Sweet would, I suppose, justify the rhym- 
ing of ' morn ' with ' dawn,' because in England the r before a con- 
sonant or a pause is dropped. Such, however, is a Cockney rhyme. 
It is not accepted by English metrists ; and in Scotland, Ireland, and 
most parts of America it would not be tolerated. Rhyme, I repeat, 
requires identity of the sounds concerned ; similarity is not sufficient : 
' mind ' does not rhyme with ' time,' ' lover ' with ' move her,' ' son ' 
with 'throne.' We find, to be sure, even the best of poets occasionally 
defiant or dormitant ; but it is wise for the beginner to live within the 
letter of the law. Sometimes, but rarely, the rhyme depends upon an 
unaccented syllable, or the secondary accented syllable of a three- 



TONALITY IN VERSE: HARMONY; RHYME Ixxvii 

syllabled word. Milton rhymes 'liberty' with 'thee,' and 'revelry' 
with 'pageantry.' 

Rhymes of one syllable, as ' fair' and 'square,' 'for^^f^r' and 'com- 
pare,'' are called masculine ; those of more syllables than one, such as 
' merry,' ' very,' ' merrily ' and ' verily,' ' saturated,' ' maturated,' whether 
double, triple, or quadruple, are called feminine. The quadruple is 
rarely used save for humorous effect. The triple lends itself sometimes 
to light composition as in Butler's Hiidibras ; sometimes to the pathetic 
as in Hood's Bridge of Sighs. 

End-rhyme may, of course, fall at the end of a cadence within the 

verse, as in 

" The splendor falls on castle walls," 
or 

" At Flores in the Azores, Sir Richard Grenville lay." 

This internal, or involved, rhyme is, however, pleasant only when the 
rhymes recur at proper rhythmic intervals. 

Since the harmony of a stanza depends not only upon the perfection 
of its rhymes, but also upon the variety of rhymes combining to make, 
as it were, a musical chord, it is essential that where different rhyme- 
units alternate, or come in juxtaposition, they should not depend upon 
the same or similar vowel sounds. A slight examination will show what 
variety there is in the succession of rhyme-sounds in any good stanza. 
Take the second of Wordsworth's Ode on Immortality, ' goes,' ' rose,' 
' light,' ' bare,' ' night,' ' fair,' ' birth,' ' go,' ' earth.' A stariza of which 
the rhymes ran ' goes,' ' rose,' ' mole,' ' soul,' ' boat,' ' rote,' would be 
tedious. One in which the final sounds were but slightly diff'erent 
would also fail to satisfy the ear ; as, for instance, " stream," " him," 
"dream," "brim." 

Alliteration. — In initial rhyme, or alliteration, the opening of the 
corresponding syllables is the same, as in "winter," "wasted." In an 
Anglo-Saxon verse, consisting, as it did, of two sections (or half-lines), 
this rhyme served to unite the halves in the rhythmical unit of the verse. 
The alliteration marked one or both of the two stressed syllables of the 
first half-verse, and always the first stressed syllable (or rhyme-giver) of 
the second half — as, for instance, 

"/ysan to_/bre : him waes /aean engla." 

Our Anglo-Saxon forefathers alliterated not only consonants, but also 
initial vowels in these stressed syllables. While, however, they insisted 
that the consonant sounds of an alliteration should be the same, they 
permitted any opening vowel to alliterate with any other. End-rhymes 
did not obtain. But from the tenth century on, the rules of initial 
rhyme were somewhat relaxed, and end-rhyme began to appear by its 



Ixxviii THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

side. And yet, as late as the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, we find 
poems like the Piers Plowman^ — 

" I was 7«eary, for7x;andered : and ii)e.vA me to reste 
Under a iJroad i^ank : by a iJurnes side 
And as I /ay and /eaned : and /ook'ed in the waters 
I i'/umbered in a j/eeping : it jweyved i so merry, — " 

persisting in the ancient sinewy fashion, and even in the sixteenth cen- 
tury verse in the alHterative rhyme of the Anglo-Saxons still occasion- 
ally appears. 

Our modern poets make less obvious, and more cunning use, of allit- 
eration than did their ancestors. They do not require its presence, 
nor do they restrict it to certain positions in the line. When marking 
accented syllables modern alliteration emphasizes them rather to the 
obscuration of the unaccented, and so preserves the rhythmic leap or 
swing of its predecessor. The frequent and emphatic initial rhyme of 

" I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance 
Among my skimming swallows," 

is calculated by Tennyson to the peculiar effect desired, — not to any 
artificial rule. So also that of Shelley's Cloud, — 

" I sift the snow on the mountains below 
And the great pines groan aghast." 

More subtle, because less frequent, is the music of the King's complaint 
in the Passing of Arthur, — 

" I tound Him in the shining of the stars, 
I marked Him in the flowering of the fields, 
But in His ways with men I find him not." 

Still more artistic is the alliteration that pervades but is not obvious, 
falling often in the middle of a word, and sometimes on unaccented 
syllables. In the poem just cited, when Sir Bedivere replies to the 

King : — 

" let pass whatever will, 

Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field, 
But in their stead thy name and glory cling 
To all high places like a golden cloud," 

his words are liquid with hidden /'s, and in a less degree with w's and 
«'s. 

Assonance. — A third kind of rhyme, though it is not in Eng- 
lish regarded as a satisfactory substitute for end-rhyme, has yet uses 
somewhat similar to those of alliteration. This is assonance or middle- 
rhyme. It is commonly employed in Spanish poetry, and consists of 

1 sounded. 



THE LARGER UNITS OF VERSE Ixxix 

the identity of accented vowel-sounds: (as in '■ aix^ d^/; r^^reth, 
fo^zmeth). The identity of the succeeding consonants, which would 
make end-rhyme, is not involved. George Eliot makes conscious use 
of assonant rhyme in the Spanish Gypsy. And in such lines as 

" O strong soul, by what shore 
Tarriest thou now ? For that force 
Surely has not been left vain ! 
Somewhere, surely, afar 
In the sounding labour-house vast 
Of being is practised that strength," 

in Matthew Arnold's Rugby Chapel, it is introduced with somewhat the 
effect of end-rhyme. 

But ordinarily assonance is used, not as a substitute for the harmony 
of verse-endings, but as an auxiliary to the melody of vowel-sequence. 
Tennyson employs it ivitliin the verses of the Passing of Artliur as an 
echo of physical and spiritual monotony, and with rare effect : — 

12 13 

" Dry clashed his harness in the icy caves 
22 I 

And barren chasms, and all to left and right 

322 3 

The bare black cliff clanged round him, as he based 

2 2 

His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang." 

Three insistent vowel-sounds dominate the passage. 

The Refrain. — The effect of rhyme is also produced by the device 
called refrain : the repetition at intervals of certain words or of a line 
or two. In a less artistic form, that of chorus, it has been employed in 
song from early times to afford the sympathetic crowd an opportunity 
of venting its emotions. The chorus recurs at regular intervals, and 
may easily become tedious. The less regular repetition of certain verses 
in the older, and many of the later, ballads, is, therefore, more accept- 
able. For numerous examples, see The Poetry of the People. But the 
refrain is at its best when it combines the charms of recurrence and 
caprice in some artfully artless structure, such as the rondeau, triolet, 
villanelle, or other French form of verse at present practised with no 
little success in English poetry. 

10. THE LARGER UNITS OF VERSE: STANZAIC AND 
STRUCTURAL FORMS 

The various elements of verse hitherto discussed : rhythm and metre, 
melody and harmony, combine in the production of stanzas, and the 
higher structural forms of verse. 



Ixxx THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

The Stanza. — As the verse consists of units which are feet, so the 
stanza is made of units which are verses. The stanza is a definite sub- 
division of a poem : it is frequently, indeed, a httle poem in itself. It is 
built up of verses which consistently follow the scheme of rhythm, 
metre, and rhyme determined as suitable to the emotional thought to be 
expressed by the poem as a whole. Though stanzas sometimes over- 
flow, one into the other, each should yield its definite impression. 
Couplets or pairs of rhyming verses, arranged in stanzaic form, as in 
Barbara Frietchie, are not ordinarily regarded as stanzas because they 
are frequently not complete and self-explanatory. In heroic verse, such 
as that of the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales or the Rape of the Lock, 
not the couplet but the rhythmical sentence is the structural unit of the 
poem. In blank verse there is likewise no stanza ; the progressive com- 
ponents are sentence, paragraph, and canto or book. 

To the qualities of the individual line of verse, namely, metre and 
melody, the stanza adds harmony. By linking verse to verse in a sys- 
tem of rhymes it produces the effect of a musical chord. The successive 
stanzas, though each should be emotionally and imaginatively distinct, 
are similarly interdependent within the poem; each contributes to the 
meaning and beauty of the rest, and all to the harmony of the whole. 

Three-line Stanzas. — Of the three-line stanza there are two princi- 
pal forms. One is the triplet, where all the verses (that is, lines) rhyme 
to the same sound, aaa, bbb, ccc, etc., as in Edmund Gosse's Lying in 
the Grass: — 

" I do not hunger for a well-stored mind, 
I only wish to live my life and find 
My heart in unison with all mankind. 

" My life is like the single dewy star 
That trembles on the horizon's primrose-bar — 
A microcosm where all things living are ; " 

or Tennyson's Eagle and The Two Voices, or Crashaw's Wishes for the 
Stipposed Mistress. The other form is terza ri//ia, used with astonish- 
ing diversity of effect by Dante in the Diinne Comedy, but not much 
availed of in English. The first and third lines of tersa riina rhyme; 
and the second gives the rhyme to the first and third of the next stanza, 
thus : aba, bcb, cdc, etc. One of the few English poets to employ this 
stanzaic structure with consistency and success is Augusta Webster, to 
whose poems. Too Faithful znd If the reader may be able to refer. In 
this volume an example will be found in Shelley's Ode to the West 
Wind. 

Four-line Stanzas. — Of the stanza of four verses, called ordi- 
narily the quatrain, the following are the better known varieties (all 
iambic) : aabb, as in the Doxology opening, " Praise God from whom 



THE LARGER UNITS OF VERSE Ixxxi 

all blessings flow " ; abab, as in Gray's Elegy (frequently one rhyme 
masculine, the other feminine, as in Barbara Allen or Tennyson's Tlie 
Brook) ; abcb, as in Sir Patrick Spens, Chevy Chase, and the opening of 
The Ancient Mariner ; abba, as in /n Metnoriam ; aaba, as in Fitzger- 
ald's Rjibaiyat of Omar Khayydm ; and aaab, as in Burns's Bannock- 
burn, where the stanzas run aaab, cccb, dddb, the last verse of each 
stanza taking the i^-rhyme. Of these quatrains, the most popular are the 
second and third. The third, abc^ and sometimes the second, abaL^^ 
when they are disposed in lines of four iambic and three iambic feet 
as above alternating (4xa, 3xa), constitute the Common Measure of 
our old ballads. The first two lines when run together, 

"The king sat in Dunfermline town | drinking hisbluid-red wine," 

are indeed nothing other than the old-fashioned septenary : considered 
by some to be the natural epic verse of England, and used with dis- 
tinction by Chapman in his translation of Homer's Iliad: — 

" Achilles' baneful wrath resound, | O Goddess that imposed 
Infinite sorrows on the Greeks, | and many brave souls loosed." 

Speaking of Common Measure (the CM. of our hymn-books as well 
as ballads) we are naturally reminded of its sister quatrains, the Long 
and Short Measures (L.M. and S.M. respectively). Of the Long 
Measure four-stress iambic, an example rhyming aabb, is the Doxology 
above referred to, — of the Short, rhyming abab, the following Doxology 
(3 xa, except the third line, which is 4 xa) : — 

" To God, the Father, Son, 
And Spirit ever blest. 
The One in Three and Three in One 
Be endless praise addressed." 

When these stanzas are doubled they are indicated as L.M.D., etc. 

Of the four-line stanzas, the finest results have been achieved by the 
fourth kind mentioned above, the quatrain of In Memoriani (j^xa) : — 

" I held it truth, with him who sings 

To one clear harp in divers tones. 
That men may rise on stepping-stones 
Of their dead selves to higher things," 

and by the fifth, — that of the Rubaiyat (5 xa) : — 

"Yet, ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! 
That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close ! 

The Nightingale that in the branches sang. 
Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows ? " 

These two forms are signally adapted to the expression of reflective, 
didactic, or elegiac moods. A modification of the latter, which may 



Ixxxii TFIE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

now be called the Fitzgerald quatrain, is used by Tennyson in The 
Daisy : — 

" O Milan, O the chanting quires, 
The giant windows' blazon'd fires, 

The height, the space, the gloom, the glory, 
A mount of marble, a hundred spires ! " — 

in which tetrameters the trochaic ending of the third line and the accel- 
eration of the fourth produce an effect akin to that of the Horatian 
Alcaic described below under imitations of classical metres. 

Stanzas of Five, Six, and Seven Lines. — Five-line stanzas, such 
as Shakespeare's W/io is Sylvia ?^ Shelley's Skylark, ?ca.di portions of 
The Aticient Mariner, are obtained by adding a rhyme in a or b, or by 
rearranging with a rhyme in c, as in the abccb of The Ancient Mariner, 
11. 137-161. 

Of six-line stanzas, the more common are abcbdb (^Hunting of the 
Cheviot, 11. 1-6; Ancient Mariner, 11. 257-262), or ababcc {Rule Bri- 
tantiid), or aaabab (Burns's Mount ai)i Daisy), and those which com- 
bine two divisions of three lines each, as aabccb (" Blow, blow, thou 
winter wind "), and aabaab (Rhyme of Sir Thopas). Among the best- 
known of the seven-line stanzas are the aabcccb of God save the King, 
and the ababbcc of the rhyme-royal which Chaucer, in Troilns and other 
poems, uses with harmonious result. 

" In May that moder is of monthes glade 

That freshe floures, blewe, and whyte, and rede, 
Ben quilce agayn, that winter dede made, 
And full of bawme is fletinge every mede; 
Whan Phebus dolh his brighte bemes sprede 
Right in the whyte Bole, it so betidde 
As I shall singe, on Mayes day the thirdde." 

The metre is iambic pentameter hypercatalectic (5 xa +). 

Stanzas of Eight Lines and More. — The eight-line stanza is fre- 
quently obtained by doubling the system of a quatrain, as in Ben Jon- 
son's " Drink to me only with thine eyes " {abcbabcb), or by adding one 
quatrain to another, as in Horatius (^abcbdefe), or by linking together 
two quatrains in the common rhyme of the fourth and eighth lines, as in 
Drayton's Aginconrt {aaabcccb). Of the numerous eight-line varieties 
the most famous, however, are the ottava rinia, followed by Byron in 
Don Juan {abababcc : 5 xa) : — 

" Most epic poems plunge in medias res 

(Horace makes this the heroic turn-pike road), 
And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, 
Wliat went before — by way of episode. 



THE LARGER UNITS OF VERSE Ixxxiil 

While seated after dinner at his ease, 

Beside his mistress in some soft abode, 
Palace or garden, paradise or cavern 
Which serves the happy couple for a tavern," 

and, second, the stanza of the French ballade, of which an example will 
be given under the fixed verse-forms that use a refrain. Its rhymes run 
ababbcbc, as in Chaucer's Monk^s Tale. If we add to the iambic pen- 
tameters of this scheme an Alexandrine (6 ax), rhyming in c, we pro- 
duce the famous Spenserian stanza {ababbcbcc), as in the selection in 
the text from the Faerie Queene, in the Eve of St. Agnes, and in The 
Cotter'^s Saturday Night. Some stanzas of a greater number of lines 
than those described above we shall consider later under structural 
forms of verse. 

Imitations of Classical Stanzas. — It will be appropriate in pass- 
ing to say a word concerning English experiments with classical stanzas. 
Of these, the more frequently attempted have been Sapphics, Alcaics, 
and Choriambics. But none of them has really found a lodgment in 
our literature. The Sapphics and Adonics of the famous 

\j ^\j \j \j 

Inte|ger vi|tae scelelrisque | purus 

were seriously copied by the Elizabethans, in the Latin quantitative 
manner ; but the following stanza from Swinburne's Poems and Ballads, 
though it does not pretend to regard the ancient quantities, comes 
nearer to combining quantity with accent than any of the older attempts. 
/ / / / / 

" Saw the white implacable Aphrodite, 
/ / / / / 

Saw the hair unbound and the feet unsandalled 

/ / / / / 

Shine as fire of sunset on western waters ; 
/ / 

Saw the reluctant — " 

A more popular but utterly uftclassical method of reading the Latin 
verse given above is by accent — 

/ / / / 

Integer vitae scelerisque purus; 

and this accentual scheme, because it appeals more readily to the English 
ear, has frequently been adapted in verse : for instance, in a paraphrase 
of Horace, Odes, I, 30, 

/ / / / 

" Venus, thou queen of Cnidos and of Paphos, 
y / / / 

Leave them behind, thy chosen hills of Cyprus, — 

/ / / / 

Come where the shrine of Glycera invokes thee, — 
/ / 

Smoking with incense : 



Ixxxiv THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

" Come with the winsome Lad of Love a-glowing; 

/ / / / 

Come with the nymphs and Graces loosely girdled; 

/ / / / 

Come with Juventas, gentle at thy bidding, 

And with swift Hermes." 

The music of the Alcaic stanza is more complicated but proportionally 
capable of richer effects. Probably the best example in English is to 
be found in Tennyson''s lines to Milton, opening : — 

/ / / / 

" O mightjy-mouth'd injventor of | harmonies, 
/ / / / 

O skilled | to sing of | time or e|ternity, 
\ \ / / / 

God-gift|ed organ|-voice of | England, 
/ / / / 

Milton, a | name to rejsound for | ages," . 

The quantities here follow almost exactly the Latin rule, and the words 
admit, at the same time, of an accentual reading which is rhythmical. 
The accentual scheme without reference to Latin quantities is followed 
in an address entitled, To Q. H. F. (^Atlantic Monthly, August, 1886). 
It begins thus : — 

/ y / / 

" O farm]er-poet, | Bard of Ve|nusia, 

/ / / / 

O court|ier-poet, | Pride of the | Palatine, 

/ / / / 

O old|-world lover, | laughing | lyrist, 

/ / / / 

■ Singer of | Chloe, Leu|conoe, Lyde, — " 

The system, though capable of varied melody, is probably too complex 
to win popularity with English readers. Metres depending on the 

choriambic foot, ww , by accent and quantity have been attempted 

by Swinburne, Robinson Ellis, and others. Perhaps the simplest stan- 
zaic form of choriambics is that known as the third Asclepiad. It is 
used by Horace in the graceful Vitas Himiuleo: — 

" Like some | tremulous fawn | Chloe you flee | from me." 

The stanzaic form, as a whole, seems to be adapted to English accen- 
tual uses ; as in the following lines descriptive of Pandora : — 

"She was | perilous fair], charming incon|sequenl — 
/ / / / / 

April I clothed in a dream | ; each of the god|desses 
/ / / 

Lent one | ling'ring, super|nal, 
/ / / ^ 

Inmost I touch to her wit|chery," 



THE LARGER UNITS OF VERSE Ixxxv 

But the choriambs naturally resolve themselves, vi'ith the assistance of 
pauses and pyrrhics, into dactyls. 

Structural Forms. 1. The Ode. — The most imposing of larger 
verse-forms of fixed structure is the regular ode. This consists, in 
imitation of the famous odes of Pindar, of strophe, antistrophe, and 
epode; the first and second corresponding in stanzaic composition; 
the last differing, but complementary, in form. The strophe or 'turn ' 
and the antistrophe or ' counter-turn ' were chanted by the Greek chorus 
of singers as they moved up one side of the orchestra and came down 
the other ; the epode was chanted after they had come to a stand. The 
most successful writers in English of the regular ode are Collins and 
Gray ; indeed, the Progress of Poesy by the latter is regarded as the 
best of the species in our language. In it the rhyme-scheme of strophe 
and antistrophe is abbaccddeeff, of the epode aabhaccdedefgfghh ; these 
compose a movement, and there are three movements of the kind. The 
strophes and antistrophes are iambic, the epodes trochaic. The lines 
vary in number of feet, but strophes and antistrophes observe one 
metrical scheme, epodes another. In poetic forms of this description 
the arrangement of the ' turns,' ' counter turns,' etc., is left to the con- 
structive taste of the writer, but once determined it must be maintained. 
Where liberty is so great and rules are self-imposed the noblest results 
may be expected. And they have been achieved not only by Gray and 
Collins, but by Jonson and Congreve. The ode lends itself to the ex- 
pression of enthusiasm, of passion under control, of elevated, highly 
imaginative reflection, of panegyric and elegy. The elaborate com- 
plexity of its Pindaric original presents, however, to the uninitiated, the 
appearance of irregularity. Hence the application of the name " Pin- 
daric" by Cowley, about the middle of the seventeenth century, to 
poetic outbursts of his own which disregarded both the fiandamental 
divisions of the ode, and its minor restrictions of order and uniformity. 

The Irregular Ode. — The so-called " Pindaric " ode of Cowley 
secured many admirers ; and it has been customary since his time to 
call every impassioned strain of unsystematic rhyme, rhythm, and metre, 
an ode. In the hands of the tyro this unchartered liberty of construc- 
tion is perilous, but under the critical control of genius it has resulted 
in some of the finest poems in the language ; Dryden's Alexander's 
Feast and St. Cecilia's Day, Wordsworth's Ode on Immortality, Tenny- 
son's on the Death of the Duke of IVellington, and Lowell's for the 
Harvard Comtne/zioration. Still another kind of irregular ode has been 
written by Milton, Matthew Arnold, Swinburne, etc., in distant imita- 
tion of the choruses of Greek tragedy. But of choral odes, graceful and 
harmonious as many are, we have not space here to give an account. 

2. Forms more rigidly fixed. The Sonnet. — Passing to 



Ixxxvi THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

structural forms regulated by a limit of lines, or by a fixed scheme of 
rhyme or refrain, we notice first the sonnet. This was introduced from 
Italy by Wyatt, and was employed by Surrey, Sidney, Spenser, Shake- 
speare and many other sixteenth-century poets. It fell into disuse 
after the death of Milton, but was revived toward the end of the eigh- 
teenth century, and has had wide and deserved vogue from that time 
on. The legitimate or Italian form consists of two parts — an octave, 
rhyming abbaabba^ and a sestet, rhyming preferably cdecde, or cdcdcd. 
Examples of the fourteen lines thus properly arranged are Milton's On 
his Blindness and Keats's on the Grasshopper and the Cricket, in both 
of which the sestet consists of two tercets running cde, cde ; also Words- 
worth's "The World is too much with us " and Keats's On Chapman^s 
Homer, in which the second of the sestets mentioned above is used. 
For all of these see the selections in the body of this volume. 

It will be noticed that some sonnets of the legitimate form arrange 
the sestet cdedce, cdeced, cdedec, or cdeedc ; and that others, while pre- 
serving the Italian octave, allow the sestet to close with a couplet. 
Wordsworth goes so far, indeed, in his " Scorn not the Sonnet," as to 
vary the octave as well, the scheme for the whole mnning abbaacca, 
cdcdee. But the legitimate sonnet does not readily tolerate such liber- 
ties. Like a cameo it is small of compass, rich in material, delicate and 
conventional of detail. The thought or mood must be significant and 
lucid, a poetical unit, single in its emotional and imaginative effect. 
The octave bears the burden ; a doubt, a problem, a reflection, a query, 
an historical statement, a cry of indignation or desire, a vision of the 
ideal. The sestet eases the load, resolves the problem or the doubt, 
answers the query, solaces the yearning, realizes the vision. It gilds 
thought with the tracery of instance, crowns it with the sufficient and 
inevitable actuality that lies within the wisdom of art. Hence the 
larger movement of the octave ; but also for simplicity and unity of effect 
the limitation to two rhymes, for force the repetition of the inner 
couplets, and for suspense the reluctant sweep, in the first, fourth, 
fifth, and eighth lines, of the outer harmony. Hence, too, the briefer but 
more varied sound-scheme of the sestet ; for the skilful and rapid inter- 
weaving of rhymes counterbalances the previous hesitancy, enriches the 
music, and enhances the climactic effect. To write the octave abbaacca, 
or abbacddc, is to disintegrate the cumulative sequence of rhyme ; to 
admit into the sestet a couplet, is to barter for a jingle what might have 
been a symphony. From what has been said it will, of course, appear 
that while the thought of the sonnet is progressive, it takes breath, as 
it were, between the octave and the sestet. But this pause need not be 
a period, nor need it occur only at the end of the eighth line. More 
artistic in my opinion is the practice of those who suffer the octave to 



THE LARGER UNITS OF VERSE Ixxxvii 

push one or two waves over the edge of the sestet. Such encroach- 
ment, or, to change the figure, enjanibei>ient, occurs in nearly all of 
Milton's sonnets, and in those of Wordsworth mentioned above. 

The "Fourteener." — The term, sonnet, has been long ago applied 
to another form of fourteen lines, written by Shakespeare and others, 
which, though it has merit, pays no attention to the principles that char- 
acterize the Italian norm. The Shakespearian sonnet consists of twelve 
lines (three quatrains, each of distinct and alternating rhymes) and a 
concluding couplet. It was devised by the Earl of Surrey as a varia- 
tion upon Wyatt's Italian or regular pattern, and adopted by many 
Elizabethans. The sonnets of Shakespeare included in this volume 
will illustrate the difference between this quatorzain, or " fourteener," as 
Charles Lamb called it, and the genuine form. Its merits are those of 
its distinctive structure. The concluding, often epigrammatic, couplet, 
which would not be tolerated in the regular sonnet, is here a fitting 
climax to the three four-line stanzas of alternating rhymes that have 
preceded. Of the Spenserian sonnet — another, but more artistic, variety 
of the '"fourteener" — the student will find some account under Spenser 
in the Progress of Poetry and in the Notes at the end of this volume. 

3. Fixed Forms with Refrain. — Other forms of verse having a 
fixed rhyme-structure are the rondeau, rondel, triolet, and villanelle, 
each of which has two rhymes, and the ballade, chant-royal, and pan- 
toum which have more. They are aU borrowed from French models, 
and are characterized in common by the presence of a refrain. 
Chaucer and some of his contemporaries tried a species of ballade, and 
Wyatt wrote rondeaus ; but it was not until recently, and under the 
leadership of poets still living, such as Austin Dobson, Andrew Lang, 
and Edmund Gosse, that the refrain-structure obtained popularity in 
England. Its varieties may not possess the dignity and inevitable- 
ness of the sonnet, but they have lightness, harmony, lucidity, and 
grace. A show of unadorned and spontaneous neatness distinguishes 
them ; but they are actually the product of art carefiilly concealed. The 
refrains recurring at intervals with a familiar note, but a significance 
ever shifting with the shifting construction, add a pleasurable anticipa- 
tion and surprise to the circlet of sound. They are stones of the same 
water, but varying facet, set in one smooth gold ring. Some of the 
French forms have taken root, and the species therefore calls for a brief 
mention here. 

Rondeau, Rondel, Triolet, and Villanelle. — An example of the 
rondeau, called With Pipe and Flute, is printed as Prologue to this 
book. If the student will turn to it, he will observe that it consists of 
thirteen lines arranged in three sections ; and that the second and 
third sections conclude with an unrhymed refrain which is itself a repe- 



Ixxxviii THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

tition of the first few words of the first line. The scheme runs aabba, 
aabR, aabbaR (/? standing for the refrain). The keynote, which is 
also the refrain, is struck in the opening " With pipe and flute." In the 
first section the music is calm and wondrous — of the rustic Pan ; in 
the second the pipe and flute are stilled ; in the third the poet contrasts 
with the raucous clangour of this mechanical day of ours the pipe and 
flute of the morning of things when the stars sang together for joy. 

The rondel has fourteen lines ; and it also is divided into three sec- 
tions. The first has four lines, the second four, and the third six. 
The second and third close with a refrain which consists of the first 
two lines of the poem. The rhymes frequently run abab, baab, ababab : 
as in the following paraphrase of Horace's yiias Hitmnleo, by Dobson, — 

" You shun me, Chloe, wild and shy 

As some stray fawn that seeks its mother 
Through trackless woods. If spring-winds sigh 
It vainly strives its fears to smother; — 

" Its trembling knees assail each other 
When lizards stir the bramble dry ; — 
You shun me, Chloe, wild and shy 
As some stray fawn that seeks its mother. 

"And yet no Libyan lion I, — 

No ravening thing to rend another; 
Lay by youi» tears, your tremors by — 

A Husband's better than a brother; 
Nor shun me, Chloe, wild and shy 

As some stray fawn that seeks its mother." 

If we indicate the refrain lines by capitals, the scheme will appear as 
ABab, baAB, ababAB. Sometimes, however, the rhyme-scheme is 
vat'ied to ABba, abAB, abbaAB ; and the last line may be omitted. 

The triolet^ like the rondel, repeats not merely a snatch of a verse, 
but a whole line or two in its refrain. It consists of eight lines 
rhyming ABaAabAB, and it is desirable that the refrains be varied in 
sentence-structure or meaning. Here is a good example by our Ameri- 
can poet, the late H. C. Burner : — 

" A pitcher of mignonette, 

In a tenement's highest casement: 
Queer sort of a flower-pot — yet 
That pitcher of mignonette 
Is a garden in heaven set. 

To the little sick child in the basement — 
The pitcher of mignonette 

In the tenement's highest casement." 



THE LARGER UNITS OF VERSE Ixxxix 

To a subtle handling of the refrain is due also much of the charm of 
the villanelle. This structure possesses a singularly graceful and sooth- 
ing harmony, and is adapted to themes of serious and reminiscent 
mood, sometimes plaintive. It consists of five stanzas of three lines 
apiece concluded by a quatrain. The tercets run aba. The first line 
of the first tercet becomes the third, or refrain, of the second and fourth 
tercets ; the third line of the first tercet reappears as the third line, or 
refrain, of the third and fifth tercets. Thus, in Dobson's exquisite 
verses For a Copy of Theocritus : — 

" O Singer of the field and fold, 
Theocritus ! Pan's pipe was thine, — 
Thine was the happier Age of Gold. 

" For thee the scent of new-turned mould, 
The beehives, and the murmuring pine, 
O Singer of the field and fold ! 

" Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old, — 
The beechen bowl made glad with wine . . . 
Thine was the happier Age of Gold. 

" Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told, — 
Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine, 
O Singer of the field and fold ! 

" And round thee, ever-laughing, rolled 
The blithe and blue Sicilian brine. . . . 
Thine was the happier Age of Gold ! 

" Alas for us ! Our songs are cold ; 
Our Northern suns too sadly shine : — 
O Singer of the field and fold, 
Thine was the happier Age of Gold ! " 

The two refrains compose the final lines of the quatrain. They are the 
burden of the whole. The scheme may be represented as follows : 
A^A\ abA\ abA% abA\ abA% abA^A^. 

Ballade, Chant-Royal, and Pantoum. — The ballade, chant-royal, 
and pantoum are poems of greater length than the preceding, and they 
employ more than two rhymes. The refrain is still the characteristic 
feature. The ballade has greater potentialities than any other of the 
French fixed forms : it is sublime or humorous, subtle or naive, stately, 
solemn, or ironical, but always graceful and melodious. It is capable of 
varied imagery and of rich and unexpected, but dignified, harmony. It 
consists of three stanzas of eight lines each, and a quatrain, called the 
envoy. The rhyme-scheme is ababbcbC for the first three octaves, 
and bcbC for the envoy. This last, according to former custom, was 



1 



XC THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 



addressed to some person of high degree, king or prince. An amusing 
example is Andrew Lang's 

Ballade of Middle Age 

" Our youth began with tears and sighs, 
With seeking what we could not find ; 
Our verses all were threnodies, 
In elegiacs still we whined; 
Our ears were deaf, our eyes were blind. 
We sought and knew not what we sought. 
We marvel, now we look behind : 
Life's more amusing than we thought ! 

" Oh, foolish youth, untimely wise ! 
Oh, phantoms of the sickly mind ! 
What ? not content with seas and skies, 
With rainy clouds and southern wind, 
With common cares and faces kind. 
With pains and joys each morning brought ? \ 

Ah, old, and worn, and tired we find 
Life's more amusing than we thought I 

" Though youth ' turns spectre-thin and dies," 
To mourn for youth we're not inclined ; 
We set our souls on salmon flies, 
We whistle where we once repined. 
Confound the woes of human-kind ! 
By Heaven we're ' well deceived,' I wot; 
Who hum, contented or resigned, 
' Life's more amusing than we thought ! ' " 

ENVOY 

"O fiate mecum, worn and lined 
Our faces show, but that is naught; 
Our hearts are young 'neath wrinkled rind : 
Life's more amusing than we thought ! " 

Another instance is the Ballade of Heroes which may be found at the 
beginning of Gayley and Flaherty's Poetry of the People^ where it has 
been used as a Prologue. It will be noted that the eiiToy or message 
in those poems gathers up the thought and impresses the moral upon 
the person addressed. Three other forms of the ballade obtain, but 
they are not frequently employed : (i) Three ten-line stanzas with four 
rhymes each, ababbccdcD, and an envoy of five lines ccdcD, e.i^. Swin- 
burne's Franqois Villon ; (2) the ballade of double refrain running 
abaBbebC three times, with envoy bBcC, e.g. Dobson's Prose and Rhyme; 
(3) the double ballade of six stanzas, the envoy sometimes omitted. 

An elaboration of the ballade is found in the chant-royal, examples 



THE KINDS OF POETRY xci 

of which appear in the work of Dobson, Gosse, and Bunner. The 
scheme of this stately but infrequent form is ^ababccddede, with envoy 
ddcde, and refrain as in the single ballade. Of it no example can be 
reproduced here, but of the pantouin (singularly adapted to the dryly 
humorous treatment of a monotonous subject) the following will furnish 
a taste. It is from Mr. Dobson's In Town : — 

" June in the zenith is torrid 

(There is that woman again !) 
Here, with the sun on one's forehead, 
Thought gets dry in the brain. 

" There is that woman again ; 

' Strawberries ! fourpence a pottle ! ' 
Thought gets dry in the brain ; 
Inli gets dry in the bottle," — 

and so on, ad indefinitum^ the second and fourth lines of one stanza 
recurring as the first and third of the next. For these, and for other 
French forms of verse not so frequently used in English, the student 
may refer to Alden's English Verse. 

II. THE KINDS OF POETRY 

The movement common to all poetry is determined by that mental 
ordering of the natural current of the subject which is rhythm. The dif- 
ferent kinds of poetry, on the other hand, are determined by differences 
of subject-matter and of the channels through which that matter must 
pass in order to issue in expression. The subject-matter may be of 
objects, events, feelings, actions, or thoughts ; and if these five dictated 
each its special poetical form, we should have to say that there were 
respectively these kinds of poetry : the descriptive, the narrative, the 
presentative or lyrical, the dramatic, and the reflective. But since we 
can express ourselves only by one or more of three ways, — singing, 
saying, and acting, — it follows that no matter how many kinds of sub- 
ject there may be, the main divisions of literary expression are, and 
must always be, Song (the early or the modern lyric, especially of feel- 
ing). Recital (the poem of events in time, narrative; or of objects in 
.space, descriptive; or of thoughts, reflective), and Drama. The bal- 
lad, the pastoral, and the idyll combine qualities of two or more of 
these kinds. As for satirical, didactic, and philosophical verse, they 
are on the border line between poetry and practical literature. 

Beginnings of Poetry : The Choral. — Poetic kinds or types have 
originated in all countries, but not necessarily all in each ; nor have 
all the stages of each kind persisted in any one country up to the 
present. The choral song cdinuot be produced in a civilized community, 



XCli THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

with the characteristics which it possessed in days when a primitive 
community met to celebrate some event affecting all alike. Such an 
event was the outburst of war, a victory, a defeat, the propitiation of 
the gods, the completion of the harvest, the return of spring-tide, mar- 
riage, the initiation of the stripling into the order of warriors, or the 
funeral of a hero, — and then with dance and music, mimicry, gesticula- 
tion, and song, all gave utterance in unison to the feeling common to 
all. Nowadays the song or lyric is the utterance of personal and highly 
specialized emotion — more often the allusive suggestion of it than its 
definite relation in expression. In those days the crowd felt and moved 
and spoke as one person ; the emotion was not highly spiritual, to be 
sure, but broad, readily understood, and universally felt, because it 
sprang from simple physical and social necessities common to all. 
Now one and now another voice would improvise a shout, a yell of 
communal joy or grief, in which all might join. Or, for the tune to 
which they danced and sang some monotonous refrain, formerly impro- 
vised, new words would here and there be suggested, to be caught from 
the lips by the chanting assembly ; and so were added new verses to 
the choral song. Such chorals were characterized by infinite repetition 
of both words and melody ; and by means of this infinite and nerve- 
racking round the crowd would, on occasion, work itself into some such 
frenzy as to-day marks the climax of a negro camp-meeting. 

In the course of time one or another factor of the choral dance would, 
however, be separately emphasized. The mimicry, for instance, might 
drop away, and some individual would lead the crowd in a better 
ordered and more stately, if less spontaneous, psalm or hymn of praise. 
The medicine man or priest — or the college of priests — would add 
new words to the old incantation ; perhaps, in time, largely recom- 
pose it. But since it was originally intended for the singing or listen- 
ing crowd, though it finally might reach, by conscious artistry, the 
excellence of a psalm such as we find in the bibles of many races, it 
would still express the feeling of the folk and appeal to the folk as a 
whole. 

Poetry of Recital : Ballad, Hero-saga, Gest. — In similar fashion 
the song-element and the rhythmic evolutions of the crowd might 
at times sink into abeyance, because somewhere in the assemblage 
some one had begun the recital of the deeds of the god or hero whom 
all were celebrating. Here, probably, was the birth — at any rate the 
germ — of hero-saga and popular ballad. These derived from the 
mother-choral qualities of lyric and drama, as well as of recital ; but 
the narrative element was from the beginning to the fore. Just as in 
the case of the ceremonial hymn, and of the priest who recomposed and 
chanted it, the primitive recital would slowly develop into independent 



THE KINDS OF POETRY XClli 

existence by the instrumentality of well-fitted reciters, story-tellers, and 
mimics, probably also singers, the forefathers of the race of minstrels. 
If, at an early date, it passed under the influence of some chieftain's 
house, in celebration of whose ancestor it had been originally composed, 
it would survive as a hero-saga. If it celebrated men of humbler fame 
or less persistent descendants, it was more likely to vanish from memory, 
or to survive merely as a local ballad. But a ballad of merely local 
interest might naturally develop into something heroic, if the minstrel of 
later day saw its adaptability to the interests or "powers " of his genera- 
tion. That the germs of hero-saga and ballad dated from primitive days 
we have evidence ; and crude song-recitals of the kind are, even now, in 
the making among primitive peoples in various parts of the world. 

Until the end of the fifteenth century English ballads could have 
been handed down only by word of mouth, and the word of mouth 
had been continually changing with the development of the language. 
Thousands of them may have run their course and dropped into oblivion 
before the invention of printing. Of course many of the ballads that 
survive from the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries 
betray the association of the maker with listening Knights and Ladies, 
or the country " Laird " and the learned '" Clerk " ; but others, even of 
late date, retain the characteristics of provincial life, — for the popular or 
' folk ' ballad is characterized by its naive way of thought, mood, and 
expression, whether it be produced in pagan antiquity or in the seven- 
teenth century after Christ. Artistic ballads, on the other hand, are 
made by individual poets. We have them from Coleridge and Macaulay, 
Rossetti and Dobson. But they display few of the qualities of the 
primitive or the minstrel ballad, qualities that could not outlive the 
conditions which gave them tang and currency. 

The traditio7ial ballad, then (traditional because popular), like Sir 
Patrick Spens, or Otterbourn, or Lord Randal, is a bit of history or 
romance or even myth, or a combination of them, in simple verse fitting 
a simple tune. It frequently possesses lyrical and dramatic qualities. 
Its subject is ordinarily local in interest, and its treatment is marked 
by naive accumulation of particulars, repetition of statement, colloquial 
conversation, question and answer, set phrases and refrain. It appeals 
by pictorial images rather than by the poetic figure (or image con- 
sciously constructed) ; not by emotional analysis or refined suggestion, 
but by wave after wave of detail. It is the production of a civilization 
near the soil, dominated by common social, emotional, and artistic sym- 
pathies ; and it is founded upon some interest that is permanent and 
universal in the heart of the community. Some primitive recitals have 
survived as simple and separate ballads ; others, clustering, in the course 
of time, about a theme or hero of more abiding fame, have coalesced 



I 



xciv THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

into the gest, as, for instance, TJie Little Gest of Robin Hood. In this 
process the influence of the individual composer, editor, or compiler is 
occasionally noticeable ; but, like each of its component hero-sagas or 
ballads, the gest is episodic, leaping capriciously from peak to peak of 
interest. 

Epic, Heroic and Mock Heroic. — When many such developed 
sagas or gests — centring about some vital crisis, belief, or ideal of 
communities which have begun to thrill as one with the spirit of a 
people or folk — have been gathered into a still larger and more majes- 
tic whole, the epic is born. The great- or folk-epic may have qualities 
which appear to result from unconscious accretion of parts, generally 
anonymous, but it is hard to explain any great folk-epic as other than 
composite ; that is, put together by a school of poets or an individual 
out of the naive originals. Such folk-epics are the Iliad, Odyssey, and 
Nibchtngenlied, and our English Beowulf In a much later stage of 
civilization, when the spirit and conditions of communal feeling have 
disappeared before individual imagination and suggestion and a con- 
scious effort at making works of art — the epic composed entirely by 
the individual appears. This lacks the simplicity and majesty of its 
predecessor. The folk-epic charms by the interest of its whole story 
and by its appeal to the whole crowd. The individual epic deals with 
a theme momentous, to be sure, but not of the heart warm, nor leaping 
from the lips of the people, — rather sought out by the poet wherewith 
to lift his readers (hearers no longer) to a nobler view of life. This 
kind of epic is either literary, like the ^neid, the Divine Comedy, and 
Paradise Lost, or didactic, like Pollok's Course of Time. It depends 
for its success upon the grandeur of its parts, its criticism of life, the 
conscious art of the poet, his magical images, and supremely poetic 
lines. In general it may be said that the folk-epic deals with traditions 
which command the credence of the people by and for whom it is com- 
posed, and that the individual epic chooses its subject with a view to 
inculcating an ideal, historical or spiritual. The Beowulf {?, an epic of 
tradition : the component parts commanded credence because they nar- 
rated events supposed to have recently happened, and the organized 
whole commanded the respect due to tradition. The Paradise Lost 
is an epic oT the spirit ; it tries to magnify into a universal ideal a defi- 
nite creed of Christian theology. The series of epical episodes called 
TJie Idylls of tJie King holds up for the emulation of this commercial age 
an historical ideal, the chivalry of a vanished day. The epic in general, 
ancient and modern, may be described as a dispassionate recital in 
dignified rhythmic narrative of a momentous theme or action fulfilled 
by heroic cliaracters and supernatural agencies under the control of a 
sovereign destiny. The theme involves the political or religious inter- 



THE KINDS OF POETRY XCV 

ests of a people or of mankind ; it commands the respect due to popular 
tradition or to traditional ideals. The poem awakens the sense of the 
mysterious, the awful, and the sublime ; through perilous crises it up- 
lifts and calms the strife of frail humanity. 

Even the modern epic poet refrains from emotion ; from obtruding 
his personality upon his readers. So far as possible he obliterates him- 
self. It is by virtue of a quiet and objective manner that he exalts his 
hearers to enthusiasm, a sense of the superhuman. His calmness en- 
ables him, after plunging the reader into the middle of things, to turn 
from the clash of gods and goddesses and men to the prologue of the 
unsophisticated little woman who frequently is found to have stirred up 
all the trouble ; it enables him to dally with artistic grace over the vari- 
ous episodes of his story, to burnish with poetic skill the particular jewels 
of thought and speech that embellish the narrative. It is by means of 
these quiet digressions from the theme, if only they be not too sudden 
nor too prolonged, that the epic poet, delaying the denouement of the tale, 
enhances its interest for his auditors. The epic recounts the deeds 
rather than the emotions of men. It is capable of higher impartiality, 
of more dignified impersonality, and consequently of more abiding 
interest and importance in proportion as it deals with the graver 
and more momentous relations of man with man and of man with 
God. 

As to its form, like the hero-sagas, gests, or chansons from which it 
sprang, it was at first adapted to music : it was, if I may use the word, 
' singable.' Then it was long recited, as to a chant. And later, when 
written to be read, it still retained the rhythmic or metrical form 
demanded by music and convenient for the memorv ; for rhythm in- 
evitably facilitates and enhances the recital of significant thought. 
From the beginning the metrical form was not of the "bard's caprice. 
Perpetuating the traditional glories of a people, the poem followed the 
prosody determined for epic narrative by the custom which national taste 
had made prevalent : the hexameter of the Greeks, the double trimeter 
of the Nibelungenlied, the alliterativ-e verse of Bemvulf, the septenar of 
Robin Hood (a ballad on its way to be an epic, that, however, never got 
beyond the wayside inn of the gest), and the blank verse of Paradise 
Lost. The epic metres are the gold-washed river-beds through which 
for centuries communal rhythms have flowed. Rich with historic de- 
posit, they contribute to the poem just that color of association and 
familiar emotion which the epic poet must himself eschew. 

Inferior to the epic in scope and majesty, and frequently of an adula- 
tory character, is the Heroic Poem, such as Addison's apotheosis of the 
Duke of Marlborough in 77/1? Campaign. And absolutely opposed in 
conception to both of these, but aping for purposes of ridicule the style, 



XCVl THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

movement, and grand intent of the epic muse, is the Mock-heroic, of 
which the best examples in EngHsh are Butler's Hi/dtbras, and Pope's 
Rape of the Lock. 

Tale, Allegory, etc. — The other forms of narrative poetry are the 
tale, the allegory, and the modern metrical romance. The first was 
carried to a point of wit, grace, and interest in the contes and fabliaux 
of France and ihefabelle of Italy in the Middle Ages. It is represented 
in this volume by the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales of Chaucer. 
It deals not with heroes and supernatural agencies like the epic, but with 
the loves, trials, and adventures of everyday individuals in domestic or 
other non-heroic life ; and it gives us a picture of manners and morals 
generally of the age in which it was written, although frequently the 
participants are of an earlier period. The allegory is a manner rather 
than a kind of literature ; it makes use of the narrative form, epic or 
romance, simple tale, or even drama, for the purpose of conveying a 
lesson ; it represents special abstractions, virtues or vices, under the 
guise of human beings, or, as in the old moral-play, imagines the course 
of Everyman in an action of which the characters are human qualities 
personified. The Faerie Queene is the noblest allegory in English 
poetry, rich with all the dignity, style, and stately imagery of the mod- 
ern epic, but lacking the continuity and interest that attach to the recital 
of an actual and epic theme. Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress is the noblest 
allegory of our prose. The i/iodern metrical roma7ice deals with the 
career of individuals in extraordinary circumstances : those of adventure, 
wonder, devotion, heroism, etc. The background may or may not be 
historical. Poems of this kind are The Lady of the Lake, The Eve of 
St. Agnes, Byron's Corsair, and Moore's Lalla Rookh. 

Poetry of Recital: Descriptive and Reflective. — The poetry 
of recital covers beside the narrative, also the descriptive and reflective 
kinds, — but these to be poetic at all must avail themselves more or less 
of the mood and method of the lyric. Narrative poetry, since its inter- 
est lies in the living and moving quality of events, has the right to be 
impersonal, showing no trace, if it please, of the feelings of the story- 
teller ; but description, if limited to mere recital of objects lying side by 
side, would excite no more poetic interest than an auctioneer's catalogue ; 
and a bare recital of a succession of thoughts, while it might be scien- 
tifically edifying, would appeal neither to the imagination nor the emo- 
tion of the listener. Descriptive Poetry, consequently, must show how 
the scene described affected the poet ; or it must borrow the method of 
the narrator and relate the details of the scene in the order in which 
they impressed him. Upon the lyrical or narrative method, or both, 
depends the success of Cowper's Task, of Thomson's Seasons, of Den- 
ham's Cooper Hill, — the success of each successive sketch in the narra- 



THE KINDS OF POETRY XCvii 

tive frame of Chaucer's Prologue, and of the details which suggest the 
reflections of The Deserted Village. 

A study of the Reflective Poems in this volume, such as D Allegro and 
// Penseroso, Tinier n Abbey and Rabbi Ben Ezra, will show that they 
also combine the spirit of the lyric with the manner of the descriptive 
or narrative recital. An absence of the emotional element would reduce 
the reflective poem, even though still imaginative in execution, to the 
level of didactic verse ; and that can only by exception be called poetry. 
An excellent series of imaginative and emotive reflections loosely strung 
upon a very slender thread of narrative and gauded here and there with 
a lyric of great price is that anomalous work of art, C/iilde HarohVs 
Pilgrimage. 

The Poetry of Song: Choral, Lyric. — The choral song was the 
unpremeditated outburst of communal emotion. Its daughter far re- 
moved, the lyric of conscious art, is the product of individual feeling 
worked over in moments of tranquillity. In many cases the modern 
lyric poet seems to be singing to himself. His song, unlike the choral, 
is not necessarily to a musical accompaniment, but to the mere rhythm 
and tonality of words, to the harmony of rhyme and stanza. There is, 
of course, a communal purpose in the modern hymn or the patriotic lay 
intended to be sung or recited to, or by, an assemblage ; but even here 
the poetic effects are produced by varied and artistic imagery and by 
progressive stimulus to the emotions rather than by the plain statement, 
often repeated, and the spontaneous emotion, of the early communal 
song. The personality of the primitive improviser singing first with, 
and later to, the choral throng was merged in, or modified by, that of the 
crowd which helped him to compose. The personality of a Byron or a 
Burns, on the other hand, is focussed in itself, independent and intense. 
Hence the emotional note of "Had we never met nor parted" and of 
"Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon" — keenly conscious of self. 

The lyric of art, then, is the expression of personal emotion in 
' singable ' or, at any rate, tuneful form. I say, at any rate, titnefid, 
for it is not at all easy to write a song that is singable, still less to 
write one that sings itself. Many of our best lyrics, although they read 
with rhythmic swing, fail of the vowel and consonant melody demanded 
by the singing voice. The best song-lyrics, like Burns's "My love is 
like a red, red rose " and " Should auld acquaintance be forgot " and 
Moore's " Believe me if all those endearing young charms " were crooned, 
in the making, to the fine old airs for which they were designed. The 
Skylark and the Cloud of Shelley, on the other hand, are not ' sing- 
able'; and still are none the less wonderful lyrics. What they lack in 
tonality they redress by rhythm, imagery, and subtle suggestiveness. 
The artistic lyric inclines to be somewhat restrained and thoughtful ; 



XCVlll THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

indeed on that account some of our noblest odes, Wordsworth's on 
I)nniortality and Duty, Dryden's, Tennyson's, and Lowell's, as well as 
elegies such as the Lycidas, though they speak a personal emotion, have 
been classed frequently among reflective poems. But they are merely 
the lyric of a self-repressive age. 

The lyric does not tell a story, it presents or suggests the atmosphere 
of a story at some crisis of its career: and the career is of the poet's 
mood. To be effective the lyric must not be long ; it may digress, it 
may proceed by leaps, but it must not relax the emotional strain. It 
must be easily grasped in mood and purpose. The imagery may be 
rich and allusive ; but it is more generally simple ; and it should never be 
profuse. The form, no matter how complex, must be graceful, pellucid, 
and polished ad ufigucin. 

Kinds of Lyric : The Elegy, etc. — There may be as many kinds 
of lyric poem as there are moods to be sung and degrees of personal 
intensity in the singer. The broader social emotions, such as the religious 
and the patriotic, and those stirred by conviviality, and by public weal or 
woe, suggest the lyric of the communal type : the hymn, the lay, the 
social song, the national elegy or ode. Emotions that spring from and 
affect the interests of the individual, his loves and hates, fears, ideals, 
joys and griefs, give rise to songs and lyrics of the more intimate kind. 
The elegy is merely a reflective lyric suggested by the fact or fancy of 
death. The emotion, personal or public, finds utterance in keen lament, 
to be allayed, however, by tranquil consideration of the mutability of 
life, the immutability of Something that justifies life and death. Con- 
sider, for example, the elegies of Milton, Gray, and Arnold in this 
volume, and Tennyson's In Meuwriam, and his ode for the burial of 
Wellington. The ode as a structural form I have already treated in 
connection with the larger units of verse (Section lo). 

Poetry by Action: Drama. — The third of the literary kinds sets 
before us persons living out what the narrative, descriptive, or reflective 
poetry of recital and the poetry of lyric emotion, together, may try to 
suggest, but cannot express. The poetry of recital and of song deals 
more or less with symbols ; the drama is the fact. It is the artistic 
representation by way of speech and action of that which is significant 
in human life. 

Subdivisions of the Drama. — The broadest division of the drama 
is into Norjnal and Ahnor»ial. The Normal Drama treats of life as 
embodying positive principles and active forces ; in short, as realizing 
a purpose ; the Abnormal Drama looks on life as unj)rincipled, unregu- 
lated, or purposeless. The former subdivides itself into the Drama of 
Tragic and the Drama of Poetic Justice. 

Tragic justice recognizes nothing but uncompromising Ideas. They 



THE KINDS OF POETRY XCIX 

are the inspiration of character and the birth of impulse ; they, in the 
emergency, compel to action ; they pass as right and wrong into con- 
duct ; they precipitate the conflict of heroes, and they persevere till by 
death, physical or moral, the exponent of the false idea is quelled. 
Death, sometimes, too, befalls the protagonist of the right, but defeat 
does not befall the right for which he has done battle. Such is 
the justice that rules the realm of Tragedy. In such a realm Mac- 
beth moves, and Hamlet, and Julius Ctesar. Tragedy purifies the 
emotions, deepening pity into sympathy, and lifting fear into reverential 
awe. 

Poetic justice, on the other hand, while still it recognizes ideas as 
motive powers of life, does not regard them as uncompromising. It 
adjusts idea to idea, idea to situation, or situation to situation. In any 
case the forces in conflict are not irreconcilable ; in every case the indi- 
viduals impelled by ideas are mercifully dealt with. To the good falls 
good, to the evil, evil ; but the punishment is tempered by mercy. On 
the stage of poetic justice may be found the Serious Play, the Romantic 
Play, the Play of Caprice. In the serious play., such as the Merchant 
of Venice, the ideas animating the central characters are still vital, and 
the interest of the spectator is enlisted fully as much for the success of 
this or that idea or principle, as for the fortune of the individual identi- 
fied therewith. But though the alarum is sounded, though parties are 
ranged for conflict, and the outcome should be fatal, — though, even, 
injustice or inhumanity seem to triumph, — uncompromising individuals 
are thwarted of their purpose, disarmed in the nick of time : the catas- 
trophe is averted by mediation. Right triumphs, wrong is rebuked ; 
the virtuous are rewarded, the vicious punished and set in the way 
of repentance. In the romantic play, serious ideas still prevail; ^ut 
it is no longer for an idea or principle, but for the fortune of a hero or a 
heroine, that interest is claimed. This is a " smooth tale, generally of 
love." It may avail itself of a villain, but he is artfully and opportunely 
eliminated ; and the deserving lovers reap the fruition of their patience. 
Such a play is the Tempest. In the play of caprice, ideas or principles 
may exist, but they consort with whims, and they sometimes become 
whimsical themselves. The Play of Caprice is both humorous and 
witty : its truest and most genial humor is displayed in the comedy of 
character; its most elementary wit in the comedy of sit nation ; a less 
genial humor and a more elegant wit are combined in the comedy of 
manners. Of course, there are characters worthy of remark in the 
comedy of manners, and there are manners worthy of consideration in 
the comedy of situation ; but each sort is here designated by the ele- 
ment that is in the preponderance. As You Like It is a comedy of char- 
acter ; The School for Scandal, of manners ; The Comedy of Errors, of 



C THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

situation. Comedy amuses, corrects, and heartens. It shows that the 
vanities of Hfe are not final, and the failures not always fatal. 

Of the Abnormal Drama little need here be said. It is negative in 
thought, morbid in feeling, or chaotic in action. It occupies the realm 
of perversion, exaggeration, and nonsense : a realm in which the aims 
of life are parodied, the emotions distorted, or the relations of things 
ignored. Its classes are, accordingly, the Burlesque, the Melodrama, 
and the Farce. The burlesque may be satirical or sensational. In 
either case it works by negative means ; but, in the former, it has a 
serious purpose ; in the latter, it would merely provoke animal laughter. 
The satirical burlesque is the only excusable kind of abnormal drama. 
For even though its didactic aim overpass the bound of art, still it has 
a value. By inflating the trivial or exhausting the pretentious it ridi- 
cules and sometimes remedies abuses, literary, social, and political. 
Such satirical dramas are Beaumont and YXttch^r^s, Knight of the Burti- 
ing Pestle^ Buckingham's Rehearsal^ and Sheridan's Critic. But in 
Shakespeare we find little satirical drama — merely an occasional trace 
of the burlesque in character. 

The other kinds of the abnormal drama are beneath consideration. 
In so far as they lack idea, form, or perspective, they may be called 
negative. The sensational burlesque indulges in purposeless and inar- 
tistic caricature. The melodrama may intend to inculcate moral princi- 
ples, but relying, as it does, upon exaggerated situations, irrational 
pathos, and vacant sensations, it is distorted in form and ephemeral in 
result. The farce (not the short comedy, which may be rational and 
artistic) is stuffed with sporadic situations, improbable whims, and 
inconsistent complications. The abnormal, or negative, drama is the 
reductio ad absurdum of life. 

The masque, such as Milton's Cofnus, has the form and method of 
the normal drama, but it is largely allegorical in character. It presents 
mythological, symbolical, or broadly typical figures, and it subordinates 
the interest of action to that of spectacular effect. 

On Dratnatic Technique or Plot-construction many treatises have 
been written, some by philosophers like Aristotle, in the Poetics, some 
by playwrights like Freytag, some by professional critics. While 
acquainting himself with the more important-theories, the student should 
beware of adopting one scheme as a key to every lock. Some elaborate 
systems are constructed with reference to but one or two kinds of drama, 
and are inapplicable to other kinds. Aristotle's analysis of plot, based 
upon the study of the Greek tragic dramatists, is the simplest, and with 
reference to it all others of importance have been constructed. He 
divides the tragedy into its natural parts, Complication and Solution. 
The Complication extends from the beginning of the action to the 



THE KINDS OF POETRY ci 

Revolution (or Climax) — a reverse of fortune, or the discovery of a 
secret, or both. The Solution extends from the Revolution to the 
Catastrophe, or close, of the play. Freytag {Tlie Technique of the 
Drarra) finds in the tragedy three important Moments or Crises, and 
five Stages of action or development. The introductory scenes of the 
play constitute the first stage of action. They prepare the audience for 
the first crisis, the Moment of Impulse or Excitation, in which the pur- 
pose of the story, the nature of the coming conflict, is made manifest 
in speech or deed. The second stage is one of thickening plot and 
cumulative interest. It is the Complication. It includes an ascending 
series of situations, the last of which conducts the action to its Climax. 
Thus, the Climax of the play is, in a certain sense, the conclusion of the 
Complication, but it is also preparatory to the Solution, and is therefore 
a stage in itself- — the third stage of action. It may consist of one scene 
or of several scenes. It conducts the Complication through the period 
of keenest excitement to the second crisis of the play. During the 
Climax one party or individual has triumphed ; but the action is not com- 
plete, the Complication is still unsolved. In the second crisis the 
element of Solution is introduced. This crisis is therefore called the 
Tragic Moment, and it consists of some misstep of the victors or some 
decisive ' push ' of the vanquished. The way is now prepared for the 
Solution — the fourth stage of the action. But since the rapid and 
hopeless fall of the hero would lack interest, as savoring too much of a 
foregone conclusion, there is generally held out a hope of his salvation, 
if not of his renewed success. This hope is, however, blasted in the 
Moment of Final Suspense, which is the third crisis of the play. From 
that moment to the close of the action is the fifth stage of action, the 
Catastrophe. 

This analysis of technique does not apply, without modification, to 
comedy, for the humorous nature of its plot demands frequent ups and 
downs of development, and, at the end, a general dcnonei/ient, or un- 
ravelling, of the complication and an ascending movement instead of a 
catastrophe. 

Mixed Kinds : Dramatic Monologue ; Idyll and Pastoral. — 
As its name implies, the dramatic monologue partakes of qualities of 
the poetry of recital and the poetry of action. Browning has brought it 
to a high degree of perfection. Though the speaker is but one, as in 
My Last Duchess and Andrea del Sarto, the interlocutors are imagined 
to be two or more ; their participation in the scene is indicated by the 
action of the speaker — his reference to their supposed gestures and 
remarks. Excellent monologues of this kind have been written by 
Tennyson also. 

The idyll may be a diamond edition of any of the three poetic kinds, 



Cll THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

— lyric, epic, or dramatic, — or a mosaic in miniature of dififerent varie- 
ties of each. Its name, by derivation from the Greek etSos, means, 
according to some, a little ' type ' or ' form ' ; according to others, a little 
'picture/ The idyll is sometimes distinguished from other poems by 
the fact that it presents a picture ; it is always distinguished from the 
major types of poetry by the fact that it presents the qualities of one 
or another of them, in a reduced and exquisitely delicate replica. The 
idyll of Theocritus, whether it be the Song of the Shepherd Thyrsis, 
or the epical tale of Castor, or of Heracles and Hylas, or the dramatic 
dialogue of the ladies of Alexandria, gathers all the honey of the comb 
into the compass of a single cell. I have said that the idyll does not 
always present a picture ; the manner, however, is generally pictorial. 
It is as if the poet were illuminating literature with a brush. The 
analogy holds true, more particularly, of the idyll dealing with rural 
or pastoral scenes. In the twinkling of an eye the painter-poet has 
caught the color as well as the human interest of the scene. The 
process is so swift that man and nature are reproduced as one. It is 
not so much that nature seems to speak with a human voice, as that she 
wears the human air ; she is enveloped in a human atmosphere. She 
invites communion, because man has communicated himself to her. 
Such pastorals as The Book of Ruth, Spenser's SheplienTs Calendar^ 
and all the rural idylls of Theocritus are little paintings, like the genre 
pictures of the Dutch School. They present a fragment of life, but 
they present it in every detail. The idyll may deal also with domestic, 
or social, even heroic, themes. The first kind is well represented by 
the Hebrew Book of Tobit or Burns's Cotter''s Saturday Night. The 
social idyll may be of city or of court ; it has been cultivated with great 
success by the Greeks and the French. The heroic kind is represented 
by the Book of Esther and by Tennyson's Idylls of the King. The 
application of the term to the latter may be justified by both interpre- 
tations of the type. The Idylls of the King are an epic in a rose- 
window ; each episode — atmosphere, scenes, images, and words — is 
stained with translucent color. 

That the idyll is the product of a consciously artistic stage of civiliza- 
tion follows from what has been said. Even the simplest pastorals — 
much more the subtle elaborations of social and heroic themes — imply 
an effort on the part of the poet to return to nature, and by means of 
highly developed processes of art to emphasize such of her features as 
seem to him beautiful. The choral song and the primitive ballad are 
at one extreme of poetic art. They exist for natural expression and 
not adornment. At the other extreme is the- idyll, which exists for 
adornment in minute detail and for personal expression of the mood 
with which the poet has invested nature. 



THE KINDS OF POETRY ciii 

On the Border : Verse, Satirical, Philosophical, Didactic. — 

Some literature in verse is on the border ; some well over in the 
marches of the practical. The justification of poetry is in the indepen- 
dent and interesting quality of its creations. We know that its men 
and moods, its actions and thoughts, are imagined, but we regard them 
as real. They live in our imagination, and they move us by their 
beauty or deformity, their tragedy or pathos, their sublimity or humor. 
They come into our lives, but tliey do not exist to change our views 
or ways of life. If we learn from them, it is not that they have 
tried to teach, but that we have observed. The literature of satire, on 
the other hand, of philosophical and of didactic thought, has a further 
purpose than to entertain by the images and emotions that it creates. 
It aims to inform, to convince, to communicate a view, and to win us to 
the acceptance of it. Such literature may assume the form of any of the 
poetic kinds, — but it is not on that account poetry. 

In so far as satire in verse stirs the creative imagination of the reader, 
or by any chance his unselfish and aesthetic emotion, it is of the House 
Beautiful. But though it use image and figure, rhythm, rhyme, and all 
the jewellery of art, if its end be to attack, to demolish, or even to reform 
and rebuild, it is not poetry. The clothes do not make the man. I 
do not say that satirical verse is not belles-lettres. Personal satires like 
Pope's Diinciad and Byron's English Bards and Scotch Reviewers are 
graceful, witty, powerful, and polished contributions to ' letters.' One 
is garbed in mock-heroic form, the other in that of reflective recital. 
But they do not breathe the ' pure serene.' They may and do enter- 
tain ; but they exist to convince. The true end of such satire is to 
castigate. Satire, when it is social, when its purpose is to reform man- 
ners, is less likely, indeed, to display animus, and therefore more likely 
to possess poetic qualities. Consider, for instance, Horace's Satires 
and the Rape of the Lock (a satire in mock-heroic form). But when 
social satire aims to correct vice, as in the verse of a Juvenal, it is an 
artistic sermon. Political satire is liable to the same restrictions as the 
social. It is well represented in English by Butler's Hiidibras and 
Dryden's Absalom and Achitophel. 

Versified Thought. — Of philosophical and didactic poems all that 
can here be said is that in the one, of which a good example is Words- 
worth's Excursion., reflection sometimes rises to the imaginative ex- 
pression of emotion, and then is poetic ; that in the other, of which 
examples are Pope's Essay on Man and Johnson's Vanity of Human 
Wishes, the value — and it is very great — is almost altogether moral 
and rhetorical. Such poems are best characterized as versified thought. 



civ THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 



12. THE JUDGMENT OF POETRY 

In the section on the Purposes of the Artist, above, it has been said 
that poetry may be regarded as stnictural, presentative, representative, 
interpretative, and creative, and that the highest reach is attained when 
interpretation and creation are conjoined. Poetry should, however, be 
submitted to still other tests if a broadly critical judgment of it is desired. 
The degree in which the poem has won acceptance, the manner of its 
expression, classical or romantic, its view of life, the quality of its high- 
est moments, and the effect produced by it upon the senses and the 
emotions, — must all be passed in review. 

The Degree of Acceptance : Classic. — A classic is a poem whose 
position is above dispute. It has stood the test of time, is oi the class. 
It has endured because it has had the power to appeal to the hearts and 
judgment, not of one crowd or coterie of men, nor of one country or 
period, but of all who have known it in all climes, through successive 
changes of literary fashion. And it has had this power of appeal because 
of its intrinsic truth, worth, and beauty. A classic then, like the trage- 
dies of ^schylus and Sophocles, or of Shakespeare, like the epics of 
Homer, Dante, and Milton, has a meaning both real and exalted, a 
power to move men that is universal, a place that endures. And the 
poet who makes the classic we call a classic too. 

The Manner: Classical, Romantic. — The manner of a poem or 
other work of art may be classical or romantic. The manner is classi- 
cal in spirit when it conforms to authority, to the traditional and accepted 
belief concerning man's relation to the supernatural, to the necessity 
which orders personality and conduct and the issues of life. It is classi- 
cal in style when it conforms to the conventional and therefore some- 
what more rigid laws of expression ; to the canons of taste handed down 
from of old, the regulations of type and figure, diction and metre 
sanctioned by usage, unquestioned because so long undisturbed. The 
manner is, on the other hand, romantic in spirit when it expresses the 
independence of the individual, the desire that springs eternal for free- 
dom, the assertion of self as against creed and authority, and sleek and 
self-satisfied custom. "Our pent wills fret and would the world sub- 
due," but since the conditions of life are unfavorable to the achievement 
of our ideals, the poet of romantic spirit transports us to a Land of Heart's 
Desire, where the stubborn facts of life are modified, and fate falls away 
and men are as gods. This is the republic of imagination. Tliese are 
the meadows of love and heroism and wonder. In style, too, the romantic 
poet may " let olde thinges pase." If so, he gropes nature anew and 
glories in discovering and making some new thing, he ventures upon 



THE JUDGMENT OF POETRY CV 

variations of the ancient types, he eschews the critical canons as received, 
he devises for himself principles, he agonizes to invent metres and a 
'spontaneous' diction. He succeeds in part; he could not possibly 
succeed in toto. The next generation finds that most of his inventions 
had been invented before, and that the only new thing under the sun is 
the old thing under new conditions. Still, while the romantic maker, 
the Marlowe, o? the Peele, is in the flush of his making, he accomplishes 
much for which ' letters ' must be grateful ; he shocks the world into a 
new casting up of accounts, into a readjustment of canons and classics. 
Always there are followers who will mn into excess, but a few — the 
Shakespeares, the Miltons — find the golden mean. 

The long preeminence of Greek and Latin masterpieces accounts for 
the technical application of the term 'classics' to those literatures. 
For the same reason the term ' classical ' is commonly used of the Greek 
and Latin manner and the authority derived therefrom. But in reality 
there are modern classics as well as ancient, and some of the poems 
that we call classical, because long established, like the Odyssey of 
Homer, were probably, in style at least, romantic to their first hearers. 
The Iliad is classical in spirit and in style, so too Paradise Lost and 
Lycidas. Pope's Rape of the Lock is classical in style, and so is the 
Deserted Village. The latter, however, verges on the romantic spirit. 
Macaulay's Horatius is classical in subject and I should say in spirit, 
but in style it is a romantic ballad. The Lady of the Lake and TJic 
Ancient Mariner are romantic both in style and spirit. 

The View of Life: Idealistic, Realistic, etc. — We frequently 
hear literature called 'idealistic' or 'realistic' Now no literature of 
the highest kind can be only idealistic or only realistic, any more 
than it can be only aesthetic. By idealism in art we should under- 
stand an effort on the artist's part to express the rightness or the 
wrongness of some view of life or some course of conduct. If the 
artist emphasizes this aspect of his subject out of relation to its other 
necessary aspects, its truth and its beauty, he passes from the studio 
to the pulpit. By realism we should understand an effort on the artist's 
part to express the exact or scientific truth about the subject presented ; 
but if he overdoes this, in his painstaking honesty reproducing insignifi- 
cant and unnecessary facts and details instead of those only that are neces- 
sary to the imaginative representation of the truth, his work will probably 
produce the effect of a haphazard photograph, purposeless and confused, 
or of some of Zola's novels or Walt Whitman's poems, or at the best 
of an ill-arranged text-book. By cestheticism we should mean the effort 
on the part of the artist to show the relation of his subject to the world 
of emotion, especially to the higher or artistic reaches of feeling, those 
capable of appreciating the beautiful, the sublime, the pathetic, the 



CVl THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

comic, the tragic, etc. ; but if nothing but emotions (actual or aesthetic) 
are portrayed or appealed to, the work results in sentimentalism. None 
of these extremes is to be tolerated in true poetry. Life must be treated 
by the poet as having a common relation to what is right or ideal, to 
what is tme or real, and to what is emotional or beautiful. Absolute 
poetry expresses all three phases of the meaning of life, according to 
the purpose of the poet and the capability of the subjeA. The perfect 
poet, if ever there were one, would therefore be a sane, all-sided, and 
hospitable soul, seeing, feeling, and valuing things aright, and recount- 
ing the outcome in the artistic form specially suited to each subject in 
turn. It of course rarely happens that the poet and his subject together 
make for a treatment real, ideal, and aesthetic in equal parts. The pro- 
portion due to the conditions must be observed. The Canterbury Tales 
as a whole present the fitting niinutice^ the worth, and the aesthetic 
quality of their subject ; but it is only natural that the Prologue should 
emphasize the reality of things — the detail of manners. Cotmis pre- 
sents the ideal and aesthetic aspect of life rather than the realistic, for 
that was properly the end in view. The Eve of St. Agnes aims aestheti- 
cally to delight the emotions and imagination ; it preserves the reality 
of appearances, but it has no particular ideal of conduct to emphasize, 
because the subject admitted of little, and the poet cared not a whit. 

The Test Passage. — Matthew Arnold has suggested that in apprais- 
ing poems we should test them by comparison with those lines, or pas- 
sages, of the great masters of poetry in which men have agreed to 
recognize ' high poetic quality ' — lines of unquestioned significance for 
truth, of high poetic seriousness, of inevitable beauty. While this could 
not possibly be a complete method of appraisement, for it deals with mo- 
ments or parts and not with the accumulating momentum and the total 
effect, it is useful so far as it goes ; and even more useful as suggesting a 
consideration even more vital to poetic appreciation. That, in substance 
and matter, style and manner, these best-of-all lines, these test lines or 
touchstones of poetry, have a mark, an accent of high beauty, worth, 
and power, Matthew Arnold says ; but he refuses to define the mark 
and accent. " They are far better recognized," he says, " by being felt 
in the verse of the master, than by being perused in the prose of the 
critic." True, probably ; but that is to reason in a circle. How can you 
be sure that what you have felt has been felt or should be felt by others 
if you know not why you yourself felt it ? Unless you have some reason 
other than your liking, or the liking of those who have gone before, for 
choosing the ' touchstone ' by which you shall test the relative worth of 
poetic productions, your ' touchstone ' will not compel universal consent. 

Now, if we examine the touchstones chosen by Arnold, we shall, I 
think, discover that they have a common characteristic not analyzed by 



THE JUDGMENT OF POETRY Cvii 

nim. If we determine that the characteristic is vital, we may demand 
it when we choose touchstones for ourselves. One of Arnold's test 
verses is '' the simple, but perfect, single line " from Dante : — 

" In la sua voluntade e nostra pace." 
Jn His will is our peace. And another is from Milton : — 

" And courage never to submit or yield, 
And what is else not to be overcome." 

The characteristic of each — so far as the thought goes — is that it holds, 
as if in balance, and perfect balance at that, the two extremes of 
the thought conveyed, and that each of these extremes, opposed as they 
are, contributes to the full significance of the whole. In the former 
test line the central thought is 'peace.' The thought is rich, full, and 
final because it holds in balance the conditions that in opposition could 
not make it, but that in harmony do; 'God's will' and our little wills. 
The former expressed, the latter suggested. In the second passage 
contrasted aspects of courage are held in solution ; courage that in de- 
feat confesses it not, courage that in conflict cannot be defeated. The 
mere style, moreover, of each of these passages displays rhythmical and 
musical form balanced in itself and suited to the idea expressed. 'Vol- 
untade' balances in sound, as well as in sense, ' nostra pace." Vowels 
and consonants hold a sequence through the line expressive of perfect 
unison. In the other passage, ' Never ' matches with ' else ' in sense 
and sound ; ' courage ' with ' overcome,' which is itself a climax to ' sub- 
mit ' and * yield.' 

This characteristic of the reconciliation of opposites in substance and 
style is the accent that marks all Arnold's touchstones. An artistic 
effect may be sometimes produced by suppressing one extreme, or even 
the higher balancing thought ; but what is suppressed must be suggested. 
The presence of this characteristic explains why it is that every one 
chooses as a passage of inevitable poetry the stanzas in Childe Harold 
descriptive of the Dying Gladiator. Such lines as 

" his manly brow 
Consents to death but conquers agony," 
and 

" He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away," 
and 

" Butchered to make a Roman holiday," — 

such lines express the significant thought in its aspects most opposed 
and yet most vital, and in the one emotive, imaginative, balanced, and 
rhythmical form appropriate to it. 



cviii THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY 

The supremely poetic moment of just this quality abounds in the verse 
of Milton. In the Comns it inspires such lines as 

" Virtue could see to do what Virtue would 
By her own radiant light, though sun and moon 
Were in the flat sea sunk ; " 

and that fine strain beginning 

" A thousand liveried angels lackey her; " 
and ending with 

" The unpolluted temple of the mind." 

Wordsworth at his best gleams with lines jewelled in sound and sense, 
such as 

" The still sad music of humanity, 
Nor harsh nor grating, still of ample power 
To chasten and subdue ; " 



and 



" His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love ; " 



and, in the lament for Lucy : — 

" But she is in her grave, and, oh, 
The difference to me ! " 

and in every stanza of the Ode to Duty till we reach the stately con- 
clusion 

" And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live." 

The balance of the thoughts — opposed, yet reconciled — and of the 
component sounds is in all these lines perfect and manifest. So also' 
in Coleridge : — 

" He prayeth best who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; " 

and in Keats, as through the stanza opening, 

" Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ; " 

and in Shelley, with every chord of 

" We look before and after 
And pine for what is not; 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought." 

The last line of which reminds us of Tennyson's equally poetic 
" Sweet as remembered kisses after death ; " 



THE JUDGMENT OF POETRY cix 

and 

" 'Tis better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all ; " 

and of that progressive resolution of discords : — 

" The old order changeth, yielding place to new; 
And God fulfils himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world." 

Laid to the heart of humanity the supremely poetic line comforts and 
strengthens, rejoices, illuminates, and beautifies. As a test, the quality 
of poetic moments, the 'touchstone' is of decided worth. It must not, 
however, be applied to the exclusion of other tests which have in view 
the possession of the larger emotional effects, and the cumulative nature 
of the poem as a whole. 

The Effect on the Senses. — If we consider the fact that images 
appeal to different senses of the reader as objects to different senses of 
the man perceiving them, we may deem it not improbable that the 
poet gains in excellence in proportion as he gives pleasure to a variety 
of senses : delighting not merely the sense of sight, for instance, but 
those of hearing and touch and taste and smelling — the perceptions of 
mass and movement as well. It will be noticed that Shelley appeals 
largely to vision and to what is called the motor sense ; and that Keats 
indulges in images of color, touch, taste, and odor, more than most 
poets. An examination into the sense-appeal of poets demonstrates 
conclusively that the poet who, while varying his images, most fully and 
consistently delights the higher senses — hearing, for instance, vision, 
and the motor sense — is more likely than others to win the admiration 
of mankind. Shakespeare and Milton, for instance, awaken all the 
senses, but they specially appeal to the highest. 

The Effect on the Emotions : Real and Esthetic. — One of the 
characteristics of poetry as of all art is to awaken unselfish, that is to 
say, ideal emotion. The art which appeals to the senses alone, to taste 
and touch and the various carnal affections, can hardly be called art at all. 
It is one of the essentials of art that it should not arouse personal 
hungers and thirsts in order to allay them with practical and physical 
satisfaction. It should awaken desires and ideals which men may en- 
joy in common. It is not even sufficient that, rising beyond the appeal 
to the senses, it should appeal to such emotions as love or hatred, per- 
sonal pity or terror ; for here again the individual is interested. That 
which arouses the personal emotions may awaken a desire to possess 
that which is admired or to fly from that which is dreaded. Art must, 
therefore, make its appeal not to the senses alone, lower or higher, nor 
alone to the personal emotions, but tp emotions which have no practical 



ex THE PRINCIPLES OF POETRY \ 

bearing upon our everyday lives, no connection with selfish interests, 
but a significance that is universal, an aim that is ideal. These are 
the aesthetic emotions. They have no suggestion of a purpose ; no 
result in action. The objects that produce them are felt, to be sure, but 
only after they have passed through the imagination. The emotions 
have a reality, but it is imaginatively expressed. The heart is affected, 
but it manifests its affection only indirectly. The aesthetic emotions are 
more delightful, the more hkely to endure and to satisfy us, just because 
they do not call for any immediate choice, decision, or movement on 
our part ; because they may be shared with others and may grow in 
intensity with social communication. 

Gradation of Esthetic Emotions. — The emotions may be 
graded in aesthetic quality according as they affect us less and less 
personally, more and more socially and ideally. The physically pleas- 
ant, the ugly, and the horrible, when presented in the drama, may cause 
the audience to enjoy or shudder in unison, but still it will arouse more 
or less of a physical sensation and interest in the individual spectator. 
This is the lowest grade of aesthetic pleasure — on the border of the 
physical. When, however, we witness the romantic adventures of a 
Rosalind or the comic misfortunes of a Malvolio, or the pathetic fate of 
a Desdemona, a higher grade of pleasure ensues. Nothing, or almost 
nothing, of the physical like or dislike is awakened. Our pleasure is not 
tarnished by personal desire or hate or horror. And yet though these 
emotions are more aesthetic than those produced by the physically 
pleasant, the ugly, and the horrible, there lingers a spice of personal 
interest. We take personal enjoyment in the romantic wooing of Rosa- 
lind, we are personally delighted by the contemptible failure of Malvolio, 
personally bereaved by the unmerited death of Desdemona. These, 
then, may be called the indhn'diial cEsthetic emotions. The highest kind 
of aesthetic emotion, however, is the universal. Its kinds are all ideal. 
The beautiful in the masque of Co/iius or The Vision of Sir Lannfal, the 
sublime in the career of Richard III, Coriolanus, Arthur, the tragic in 
the fate of Macbeth and Brutus, are enjoyed by us supremely because 
we in no way associate the beauty or the sublimity of the tragedy with 
the interests of our own little lives. We enjoy the harmonious blend- 
ing of nature and spirit in the beautiful without a quiver of petty desire 
to possess the object of beauty. We contemplate sublimity in the 
course of a Coriolanus or an Ajax with no thought of our own insignifi- 
cance in presence thereof. We suffer tragedy to play itself to the 
bitter close in Macbeth and Julius Ccesar and Othello, because we know 
that the power that shapes our ends is working for the universal good; 
and we enjoy the triumph of the right because we have ideally sub- 
mitted ourselves to the ways of Pfovidence. So the cardinal aesthetic 



THE JUDGMENT OF POETRY Cxi 

emotions are those awakened by ideal beauty, sublimity, and tragedy ; 
and of these the master-poet most avails himself. With these he may 
combine the appeal to the more individual aesthetic emotions, the 
romantic, the comic, the pathetic. But he uses with great caution, 
and at his own peril, the emotions almost sensual, those allied with 
physical gratification, ugliness, and horror. 

The judgment of poetry, then, takes into account the worth of the 
thought expressed and the magic of the expression, the universality of 
the appeal, the endurance of the creation. Poetry is real, aesthetic, 
and ideal : it must possess truth of spirit and adequacy of form ; it must 
by its beauty move, and by its rhythms charm ; and by its power com- 
pel. It is both interpretative and creative : it must therefore be judged 
by the fulness of its wisdom, the stature of its imagination. It adapts 
the laws and materials of speech to the higher needs of humanity ; it 
must give large utterance to the individual soul, intimate communion 
to the general. Springing from nature, it has a message for that which 
is highest in nature, the unselfish heart of man. It enhances our joys 
and relieves our sorrows ; it widens the bounds of sympathy, social, 
ideal, and artistic ; and it must be judged accordingly. 

Charles Mills Gayley. 



I 



ENGLISH POETRY 

PROGRESS AND MASTERPIECES 
CHAPTER I 

HISTORICAL BASIS 

THE ORIGINS OF THE LANGUAGE 

Before entering upon the study of modern English poetry it will be 
wise to consider briefly the language in which that poetry is written. 
As we shall see, it is a language composed of elements which have been 
added one after another, as one race after another has come and seen 
and conquered upon British soil. We shall attempt merely to enumer- 
ate these conquests, leaving the student to fill in the story from his study 
of English history or the history of English literature. 

1. The Celts and the Romans. — In the early westward migration 
of the races, the Celts made their way as far as the British Isles, 
and, several centuries before the beginning of the Christian era, had 
obtained entire possession of the country. In 55 and 54 B.C. the 
Romans under Julius Caesar made two unavailing expeditions into 
Britain. A century later, in their career of Western conquest, they 
gained a military supremacy over the Celts, at least in the southern 
and more accessible portions of the island, and, to some extent, civilized 
the original inhabitants. But direct traces of early Celt and early Roman 
do not abound in our language, though the Celtic element, as we shall 
find, has had no slight influence in providing theme and spirit for future 
English poetry. 

2. The Teutons (Anglo-Saxons). — When the Roman troops 
were called home, about 400 a.d., to defend the imperial city from the 
attacks of Teutonic invaders, the Celtic tribes in the north and west 
of Britain, taking advantage of the defenceless condition of the weaker 
Celts of the south, swooped down upon them and threatened to overmn 
the country. In their extremity the southern Celts called to their aid 
the Teutonic tribes dwelling upon the easterly shore of the North Sea 

B I 



2 HISTORICAL BASIS 

south and southwest of Denmark. These new allies, having performed 
the task assigned to them, concluded by taking the country for them- 
selves, and after nearly four centuries of conquest gained complete 
ascendency, killing many of the original inhabitants of the island and 
pushing others into Cornwall, Wales, and Scotland. During the earlier 
portion of this struggle, probably in the sixth century a.d., some have 
placed the exploits of the legendary Celtic king, Arthur — a British 
hero destined to play no small part in future EngHsh poetry. The 
principal tribes of the Teutonic invaders were the Angles and the 
Saxons, from the former of whom are derived the present names of the 
country and of the language. This language, in its earlier form, was 
developed by the West Saxons, the finally dominant tribe, and in that 
earlier form is now denominated " Anglo-Saxon." It was the language 
of nearly all England for six hundred years, from the beginning of the 
fifth through the end of the tenth century. In the early part of this 
period the Anglo-Saxons were christianized, an event which not only 
added several hundred Latin words to the language, but also largely 
influenced Anglo-Saxon poetry. The wonderful Anglo-Saxon epic of 
Beowulf was composed while our ancestors were yet pagans, and before 
they had come to Britain. The first great Anglo-Saxon poem written 
in England was Casdmon's Paraphrase of Biblical History. 

3. The Northmen. — During the ninth and tenth centuries certain 
Danish tribes — the Northmen, or Norsemen — gradually gained a foothold 
in England ; and, in the early part of the eleventh century, they attained 
such strength that there was a short period of Danish rule. The con- 
sequent mingling of the Scandinavian tongue with the Anglo-Saxon 
no doubt modified the latter to a considerable extent, particularly as 
regards the spoken language. The fact, however, that both races were 
Teutonic makes it difficult to determine how great this influence really 
was. But a very important Norse influence was soon to enter by an- 
other channel. Upon the people of Gaul (France), originally Celtic, the 
Romans had imposed not only military rule, but also the fashion of the 
Latin tongue. This Latin speech continued to be the basic language 
of the French, though modified (i) by traces of the original Celtic 
tongue; (2) by the language of the Franks, — a Teutonic people who 
overran France and gave their name to the country about the time 
that the Anglo-Saxons were overrunning England; and (3) by the 
Northmen of whom we have spoken above. The onslaught of these 
last invaders was so successful that about 900 a.d. the French ceded to 
them a large tract of country in Northern France, which they called 
Normandy. They soon adopted the religion and the language of the 
Franks. The latter, however, was modified by contact with the native 
speech of the Northern conquerors. 



ORIGINS OF THE LANGUAGE 3 

4. The Norman French. — These Norman French, as the people 
of Normandy were called, having invaded England in 1066 a.d., suc- 
ceeded in overthrowing the Anglo-Saxons at the momentous battle of 
Hastings, and in establishing dominion over the country. For nearly 
three centuries after this time there is displayed the singular spectacle of 
two great languages existing side by side in the same small island, neither 
of them very materially affected by the other. To the Anglo-Saxon, or 
English, the great body of the common people stubbornly held. The 
Norman French, on the other hand, was the language of the court, the 
nobility, the schools, the churches, and, to a large extent, of literature.^ 
During the first hundred and fifty years after the conquest, English 
almost ceased to exist as a written language, since most of ths poetry 
and much of the prose was the work of Normans. By slow degrees, 
however, the Normans severed their connection with their original 
home on the continent and began to coalesce more and more with the 
Saxon element of the island. By the end of the thirteenth century 
there were consequently evolved, in various parts of Britain, various 
Anglo-Norman dialects, from which our present language was destined 
to spring. Though we cannot discuss the matter here at any length, 
we may briefly say that in the composite language thus formed, the 
grammar and the more familiar words are Anglo-Saxon, while the less 
common words are Norman French, — that is, the Latin of Gaul as 
modified successively by Teutonic influences, first Frankish and then 
Norse.- 

Summary. — This brings the story down to the beginning of the 
fourteenth century, the century which witnessed the first flowering of 
our modern literature. We have seen that the language in which this 
literature finds expression is a compound of an Anglo-Saxon or Teu- 
tonic element, and a Norman French or Latin element. Though the 
language has derived about the same number of words from each of 
these sources, we can readily understand why the Anglo-Saxon forms 
much the larger portion of any author's vocabulary ; for its words 
denote the commoner objects of experience and relations of thought. 

1 Of course, no small proportion of the theological, scientific, and romantic writing 
of the time was in Latin; and this undoubtedly affected the spirit of our literature. 
But we are referring above especially to the development of the language ; and 
upon this the influence of Latin has always been indirect rather than direct. 

2 This discussion has sketched the growth of our language only to the end of the 
thirteenth century. Since that time the language has been greatly enlarged, but this 
enlargement is due not to immigrations and conquests on the part of alien races, 
but to the new words brought in from other tongues by travel, by commercial and 
social intercourse with other lands, by inventions and discoveries, by new subjects 
and forms of thought,. — in short, by the general growth and development of the 
people. 



4 HISTORICAL BASIS 

We have also seen how it came about that the Celts, the original occu- 
pants of Britain, now have their abode in the mountains of Wales and 
Scotland, in the peninsula of Cornwall, and in Ireland and the smaller 
adjoining islands, where, though they have had but little influence upon 
our language as a language, they have done much toward influencing 
the literature which it is a mission of that language to express. Finally, 
we have seen that the English nation, like the English language, is a 
composite, and can understand that the commingling of races in the 
" long period before the outburst of literature in the fourteenth century 
was an important element in the unconscious preparation for the later 
time." The admixture of racial characteristics in this period of growth 
has contributed much to the determination of qualities peculiar to all 
subsequent English poetry. 



CHAPTER II 

THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY 

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE LANGUAGE AND THE 
BEGINNING OF THE LITERATURE 

The fourteenth century has been fitly called the most important 
epoch in the intellectual history of Europe. It was the century in 
which decaying feudalism began to give way under the pressure of a 
new social order. It was the century of the distinctively modern Italian 
writers, Petrarch and Boccaccio, the most notable representatives of 
a literature which has in manifold ways stimulated the mind of England 
to a corresponding literary activity. It was during this century that 
English poets ceased to be mere copyists of a foreign school, and that 
a new and original native poetry arose. It was during this century, 
also, that out of the Babel of conflicting dialects the present English 
language won its way. 

At the beginning of the fourteenth century our language was at a 
critical stage of its development. It was at least certain that the basis 
of the language would be Teutonic rather than Latin. Little by little 
the Norman French had been banished from the schools, from the 
churches, from the law courts, from society ; but as yet no national 
English language had come forward to take its place. Different dia- 
lects were spoken in different portions of the country — the Southern, 
the Midland, and the Northern English, the last of which was the 
parent of the modern Lowland Scotch, the tongue of Ayrshire and 
of Burns. In course of time, however, the English spoken in the 
eastern part of the Midland district — the language of Oxford and 
Cambridge, of London and the Court — drew to the front and attained 
a supremacy which it has never lost. One of the most potent agencies 
in fixing this dialect as the English of to-day, was the use made of it in 
fourteenth-century literature — by John Wycliff in his translation of 
the Bible, and by him whom many delight to honor as "the father of 
English poetry," Geoffrey chaucer. 

Contemporaneous with Chaucer were two other fourteenth-century 
poets, who deserve at least to be mentioned, william langland 

5 



6 THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY 

( 1 332-1400) was more than an ordinary poet, though he belongs, in both 
the thought and form of his poetry, to the age which was passing rather 
than to the age in which he lived. Far greater in his influence upon 
succeeding poetry was JOHN gower (i33o?-I4o8), a scholarly, if some- 
what prosaic, individual, who, writing in the same dialect, and dealing 
with the same themes as his distinguished friend Chaucer, served with 
him as a " fellow schoolmaster in bringing England to literature." But 
however interesting from a historical point of view, neither Langland 
nor Gower can for a moment be compared with Chaucer himself, who 
stands out easily as the first true artist in English poetry. 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER (i 3407-1400) 

It is a noteworthy fact that Chaucer, by two centuries the earliest 
of our greater English poets, is, at the same time, one of the greatest 
of all English poets : for critics unite in giving him a place among the 
five or six princes of our literature. His skill in the use of language, 
his sympathy with nature, his genial humor and keen insight, his inti- 
mate knowledge of men and things, his genius in the delineation of 
character, his delightful freshness and originality of view, — these par- 
ticular qualities have perhaps never since been so happily joined in any 
one English poet outside of Shakespeare himself. Yet, interesting as 
we feel the man to be, and unremittingly as students have endeavored 
to search out the facts of his life, it must be confessed that our absolute 
information regarding him is unhappily limited. 

i340?-i372. — Chaucer was born about 1340, in London, his father 
being a vintner, or wine seller, in fairly easy circumstances. We know 
nothing of the boy's early education, or, indeed, anything at all about 
him, until 1357, when we find him acting as a page in the household of 
the Duke of Clarence, third son of Edward III. He took part, as one 
of the duke's retinue, in a military expedition into France, where, in 
1360, he was for a short time prisoner. For several years after this 
date all trace of him is again lost ; but in 1367 we find him installed as 
a valet of the King's Chamber, an office which he had doubtless been 
holding for some time, and which he continued to hold till 1372. Dur- 
ing this period he commenced to write verse, and produced the Com- 
pleynte tttito Pitie and the Boke of the Duchesse, both of which appeared 
before 1370, and, in the opinion of most critics, show traces of French 
influence. About this time his marriage took place ; just when is un- 
certain, but, at any rate, sometime between 1366 and 1374. We also 
know that he left at least one child. 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER J 

1372-1386. — In 1372, when thirty-two years of age, Chaucer was sent 
on a diplomatic mission to Italy ; and while there became acquainted 
with the writings of Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio. This journey 
and its results are of vital importance, both to Chaucer and to English 
poetry. It is at this point that our literature is first affected by the 
dominant influence of Italy; and it is by this same influence that the 
growing powers of our first real poet were strengthened and directed. 
During this period many of his best poems were written, — among 
others, the Hous of Fame, the Legende of Good Women, and the Troilus 
and Criseyde. During this period, also, the poet was very active in the 
affairs of the world. We hear of him as, successively. Comptroller of 
Customs, Ambassador on various foreign missions, and, finally, Member 
of Parliament for Kent. Few makers of English literature have been so 
prominent in public activities. 

1386-1400. — Near the close of 1386, a change in political fortunes 
brought to Chaucer the loss of his offices, and reduced him suddenly 
from affluence to comparative poverty. In this period of enforced lei- 
sure, the plan of The Canterbury Tales seems to have shaped itself in 
his mind; and between 1387 and 1390 were probably written not only 
the Prologue, but also the best and largest portion of the Tales. The 
last ten years of Chaucer's life were the least productive of literary 
result. The Tales, which he had planned on a splendid scale, were 
not yet one-fifth completed ; yet he added only three between 1390 and 
1400. Sometimes he was in comfortable circumstances, more often in 
want and dependent upon the bounty of the king. In the latter part 
of 1400 the kindly poet and noble-hearted gentleman died. He was the 
first of English poets to be honored by burial in Westminster Abbey. 

Though most of Chaucer's effort was directed to the telling of stories, 
a task in which he has succeeded so well that Stopford Brooke pro- 
nounces him " our greatest story-teller in verse," still most readers of 
to-day would undoubtedly prefer, to even the best of his stories, that 
wonderful gallery of fourteenth-century portraits known as the Prologue 
to the Caftterbury Tales. Of this one critic has gone so far as to say, 
"There is no writing like that of the Prologue in all English literature, 
save in Shakespeare." And, indeed, in its freshness and beauty and 
the vivid colors of its " lively portraiture," it takes rank with the very 
best of its kind. Aside from the Prologue the student will probably find 
the Knightes Tale and the Nonne Preestes Tale of greatest interest. 



THE PROLOGUE TO THE CANTERBURY TALES 



Here biginneth the Book of the Tales of Caunterbury 

N.B. — In Chaucer there are as many syllables as there are vowels or diphthongs, 
except when the vowel or diphthong is elided or suppressed. These elisions or sup- 
pressions, which happen very frequently in the case of e and occasionally of other 
vowels, are marked in this text by italics. 

The influences of the breezy April 

Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote 
The droght^ of Marchd" hath perced to the rote, 
And bathed ev^ry veyn^ in svvich Hc6ur, 
Of which vertii engendred is the flour ; 
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth 5 

Inspired hath in ev^ry holt and heeth 
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne 
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne, 
And smale fowles maken melodye, 

That slepen al the night with open ye, lo 

(So priketh hem natur<? in hir corages) : 
Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages 
(And palmers for to seken straunge strondes) 
To feme halwes, couth.? in sondry londes ; 
And specially, from ev.?ry shires ende 15 

Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, 
The holy bhsful martir for to seke, 
That hem hath holpen, whan that they wer^ seke 

77ie arrangement for a pilgrimage to be made in conpany 

Bifel that, in that seson on a day, 
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay 20 



THE PROLOGUE 9 

Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage 

To Caunterbury with ful devout corage, 

At night was com*? in-to that hostelrye 

Wei nyni? and twenty in a companye, 

Of sondry folk, by aventur<? y-falle 25 

In felawship^, and pilgrims wer^ they alle, 

That t6ward Caunterbury wolden ryde ; 

The chambres and the stables weren wyde, 

And wel we weren esed atte beste. 

And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste, 30 

So hadd<? I spoken with hem ev^richon, 

That I was of hir felawship.? anon. 

And made forward erly for to ryse, 

To tak^ our wey, ther as I yow devyse. 

An introduction to the character sketches that follow 

But natheles, whyl I hav^ tym^ and space, 35 

Er that I ferther in this tale pace. 
Me thinketh it acordaunt to res6un, 
To telle yow al the condici6un 
Of ech of hem, so as it semed me. 
And which^ they weren, and of what degree ; 40 

And eek in what array that they wer^ inne : 
And at a knight than wol I first biginne. 

The Knight 

A Knight ther was, and that a worthy man, 
That fro the tyme that he first bigan 
To ryden out, he loved chivalrye, 45 

Trouth^ and hon6ur, fred6m and curteisye. 
Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre, 
And ther-to haddi? he riden (no man ferre) 
As wel in Crist^ndom as in hethenesse. 
And evi?r hon6ured for his worthinesse. 50 

At Alisaundr<? he was, whan it was wonne ; 
Ful ofte tynii? he hadd<? the bord bigonne 
Aboven alle naciouns in Pruce. 



10 CHAUCER 

la Lettow haddr he reysed and in Ruce, 

No Cristen man so oiVe of his degree. . S'S 

In Gernad^' at the seg^ eek hadd^ he be 

Of Algezir, and ridm in Beh"narye. 

At Lyeys was he, and at Satalye, 

Whan they wer^ wonn^ ; and in the Grete See 

At many a nobk aryve hadd<f he be. 60 

At mortal batailks haddf he been fiftene, 

And foghten for our feith at Tramissene 

In Hstes thryes, and ay slayn his fo. 

This ilke worthy knight had been also 

Somtyme with the lord of Palatye, 6s 

Ageyn another hethen in Turkye : 

And evermori? he hadd^ a sov^reyn prys. 

And thogh that he wer^ worthy, he was wys, 

And of his port as mek^ as is a mayde. 

He never yet no vileiny*? ne sayde 70 

In al his lyf, un-to no maner wight. 

He was a verray parfit gentil knight. 

But for to tellen yow of his array. 

His hors wer^ god<?, but he ne was nat gay. 

Of fustian he wered a gip6un 75 

Al bismotered with his haberg^oun ; 

For he was lat^ y-conii? from his viage, 

And wente for to doon his pilgrimage. 

The Squyer 

With him ther was his soni?, a yong Sqltv'er, 
A lovyer<f, and a lusty bachelor, 80 

With lokkes crulk, as they wer^ leyd in presse. 
Of twenty yeer of ag^ he was, I gesse. 
Of his stature he was of evrne lengthe. 
And wonderly deliver, and greet of strengthe. 
And he had been somtyme in chivachye, 85 

In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Picardye, 
And born him wel, as of so litel space, 
In hope to stonden in his lady grace. 



THE PROLOGUE II 

Embrouded was he, as it wer^ a mede 

Al fill of fresshe floures, whyt<? and rede. 9° 

Singing.? he was, or floyting,?, al the day ; 

He was as fresh as is the month of May. 

Short was his gound", with sieves long^ and wyde. 

Wei coude he sitti? on hors, and faire ryde. 

He coude songes male.? and wel endyte, 95 

Justd' and eek daunc^, and wel purtrey.? and wryte. 

So hot(f he loved.?, that by nightertale 

He sleep na-mor^ than dooth a nightingale. 

Curteys he was, lowly, and servisable, 

And carf biforn his fader at the table. 100 

The Ycman 

A Yeman haddt' he, and servaunts na-mo 
At that tynv, for him liste ryde so ; 
And he was clad in cot^ and hood of grene ; 
A sheef of pecok-arwes bright.? and kene 
Under his belt he bar ful thriftily, 105 

(Wel coud.? he dress.? his takel yemanly : 
His arwes drouped noght with feth^res lowe), 
And in his hand he bar a mighty bowe. 
A not-heed hadd^ he, with a broun visage. 
Of wode-craft wel coud.? he al th.? usage. no 

Upon his arm he bar a gay bracer, 
And by his syd.? a swerd and a bok^'ler, 
And on that other syd^ a gay daggere 
Harn^ised wel, and sharp as point of spere ; 
A Cristofrc on his brest of silver shene. "5 

An horn he bar, the bawdrik was of grene ; 
A forster was he, soothly, as I gesse. 

The Prioresse 

Ther was also a Nonn^, a Prioresse, 
That of hir smyling was ful sympk and coy ; 
Hir grettest^- 00th was but by seynt Loy ; 120 

And she was cleped madanv Eglentyne. 



12 CHAUCER 

Ful wel she song the service divyne, 

Entuned in hir nos<? ful semely ; 

And Frensh she spak ful fair*? and fetisly, 

After the scol<? of Stratford-atte-Bowe, 125 

For Frensh of Paris was to hir unknowe. 

At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle; 

She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle, 

Ne wetti? hir fingres in hir sauce depe. 

Wel coud^ she cari^ a morsel, and wel kepe 130 

That no drope ne fill<? up-on hir brest. 

In curteisy^ was set ful moch<? hir lest. 

Hir over lippe wyped she so clene, 

That in hir coppe was no ferthing sene 

Of grece, whan she dronken haddi? hir draughte. 135 

Ful semely after hir met^ she raughte, 

And sikerly she was of greet desport, 

And ful plesaunt, and amiabl<? of port, 

And peyned hir to countrefete chere 

Of court, and been estatlich of manere, 140 

And to ben holden dign^ of reverence. 

But, for to speken of hir conscience. 

She was so charitabl<? and so pit6us, 

She wolde wep^, if that she saw<? a mous 

Caught in a trappy, if it wer^ deed or bledde. 145 

Of smale houndes had she, that she fedde 

With rosted flesh, or milk and wastel-breed. 

But sore wepti? sh^ if oon of hem wer.? deed, 

Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte : 

And al was conscience and tendre herte. 150 

Ful semely hir wimpel pinched was ; 

Hir nose tretys ; hir eyen greye as glas ; 

Hir mouth ful smal, and ther-to softe and reed ; 

But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed ; 

It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe ; 155 

For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe. 

Ful fetis was hir cloke, as I was war. 

Of smal corAl aboute hir arm she bar 

A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene ; 



THE PROLOGUE ' 1 3 

And ther-on heng a broch,? of gold ful shene, i6o 

On which ther was first writ^ a crowned A, 
And after, Amor vincit omnia. 

The Nonne and the three Preestes 

Another Nonne with hir hadde she, 
That was hir chapeleyn^, and Preestes three. 

The Monk 

A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistrye, 165 

An out-ryd^r^, that loved.? venerye ; 
A manly man, to been an abbot able. 
Ful many a deyntee hors hadd.? he in stable : 
And, whan he rood, men mights his brydel here 
Ginglen in a whistling wind as clere, 170 

And eek as loud^" as dooth the chapel-belle, 
Ther as this lord was keper of the celle. 
The reuk of seint Maur^ or of seint Ben^it, 
By-caus<? that it was old and som-del streit. 
This ilke monk leet olde thinges pace, 175 

And heeld after the newe world the space. 
He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen, 
That seith that hunters been nat holy men ; 
Ne that a monk, whan he is recchelees. 
Is lykned til a fish that h waterlees ; 180 

This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloistre. 
But thilke text held he nat worth an oistre ; 
And I seyd(?, his opinioun was good. 
What shold<? he studi.?, and mak^ him-selven wood, 
Upon a book in cloistr<? alwey to poure, 185 

Or swinken with his handes, and lab6ure. 
As Austin bit ? How shal the world be served ? 
Lat Austin hav(? his swink to him reserved. 
Therfor^ he was a pricasour aright ; 
Grehoundd-s he hadd^, as swift.? as fowd in flight ; 190 
Of priking and of hunting for the hare 
Was al his lust, for no cost wold^ he spare. 



14 CHAUCER 

I seigh his sieves purfiled at the hond 

With grys, and that the fynestif of a lond ; 

And, for to festni? his hood under his chin, 195 

He haddi? of gold y-wroght a curious pin : 

A lov^-knott^ in the gretter end^ ther was. 

His heed was balkd, that shoon as any glas, 

And eek his faci?, as he had been anoint. 

He was a lord ful fat and in good point ; 200 

His eyen step<', and rolling!? in his heed, 

That stemed as a forneys of a leed ; 

His botes soupk, his hors in greet estat. 

Now certeinly he was a fair prelat ; 

He was nat pak as a for-pyned goost. 205 

A fat swan lov^d he best of any roost. 

His palfry was as broun as is a berye. * 

The Frere 

A Frer£ ther was, a wantown and a merye, 
A hmitour, a ful solempne man. 

In alle th^ ordres four^ is noon that can 210 

So moch^ of daliaunc^ and fair langage. 
He hadde maad ful many a mariage 
Of yonge wommen, at his ow^ne cost. 
Un-to his ordri? he was a noble post. 
Ful vvel bilovM and famuli^r was he 215 

With frankeleyns ov^r-al in his contree, 
And eek with worthy wommen of the toun : 
For he had power of conf(6ssi6un, 
As seydi? him-self, more than a curat, 
For of his ordr^' he was licentiat. 220 

Ful swetely herd*? he conf(6ssi6un, 
And pleasaunt was his absoluci6un ; 
He was an esy man to yevi? penAunce 
Ther as he wist^ to han a good pitaunce ; 
For unto a pour^ ordre for to yive 225 

Is signe that a man is wel y-shrive. 
For if he yaf, he dorste mak^ avaunt, 
He wiste that a man was repentaunt. 



THE PROLOGUE I 5 

For many a man so hard is of his herte, 

He may nat wep<? al-thogh him sore smerte. 230 

Therfor^, in sted(f of weping and prey^res, 

Men moot yev^ silver to the poure freres. 

His tipet was ay farsed ful of knyves 

And pinnes, for to yeven faire wyves. 

And certeinly he hadd^ a mery note ; 235 

Wei coud^ he sing<? and pleyen on a rote. 

Of yeddingd-s he bar outrely the prys. 

His nekke whyt was as the fiour-de-lys ; 

Ther-to he strong was as a champioun. 

He knew the tavernifs wel in ev^ry toun, 240 

And ev(?rich hostiler and tappestere 

Bet than a lazar or a beggestere ; 

For un-to swich a worthy man as he 

Acorded nat, as by his facultee, 

To hav^ with seke lazars aqueyntaunce. 245 

It is nat honest, it may nat avaunce 

F6r to delen with no swich poraille, 

But al with xiohe and sellers of vitaille. 

And ov<fr-al, ther as profit shold*? aryse, 

Curteys he was, and lowly of servyse ; . 250 

Ther nas no man no-wher so vertuous. 

He was the beste beggerc' in his hous ; 

For thogh a widwe hadde noght a sho. 

So pleasaunt was his " In principio,^^ 

Yet woldi? he havi? a ferthing, er he wente, 255 

His purchaswas wel bettre than his rente. 

And rag<? he coudi?, as it v/txe right a whelpe. 

In love-day<fS ther coud<? he muchel helpe ; 

For ther*? he was nat lyk a cloisterer, 

With a thredbar cop^, as is a pour<? scoMr, 260 

But he was lyk a maister or a pope. 

Of double worsted was his semi-cope, 

That rounded as a belk out of the presse. 

Somwhat he lipsed, for his wantownesse, 

To make his English sweti? up-on his tonge ; 265 

And in his harping, whan that he had songe, 



1 6 CHAUCER 

His eyen twinkled in his heed aright, 
As doon the sterres in the frosty night. 
This worthy limitour was clep^d HuWrd. 

The Marchant 

A Marchant was ther with a forked herd, 270 

In mottelee, and hy^ on hors^ he sat, 
Up-on his heed a Flaundrish bever^" hat ; 
His botes clasped fair^ and fetisly. 
His resons he spak ful solempnely, 
Souning^ alway thencrees of his winning. 275 

He wold^ the see wer^ kept for any thing 
Bitwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle. 
Wei coudi? he in eschaunge sheeldes selle. 
This worthy man ful vvel his wit bisette ; 
Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette, 280 

So ^'statly was he of his governaunce, 
With his bargayn^s, and with his chevisaunce. 
For soth<? he was a worthy man with-alle, 
But sooth to seyn, I noot how men him calle. 

The Clerk of Oxenfo7-d 

A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also, 285 

That un-to logik hadde long^ y-go- 
As lene was his hors as is a rake, 
And he nas nat right fat, I undertake ; 
But loked holw^, and ther-to soberly. 
Ful thredbar was his ov^rest courtepy ; 290 

For he had get.?n him yet no benefice, 
Ne was so worldly for to hav^ office. 
For him was lev^r havi? at his beddes heed 
Twenty bokes, clad in blak or reed. 
Of Aristotk and his philosophye, 295 

Than robes rich^?, or fithd, or gay sautrye. 
But al be that he was a philos6phre. 
Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre ; 
But al that he mights' of his freendes hente, 



THE PROLOGUE 1 7 

On bokes and on lerning^ he it spente, 300 

And bisily gan for the soules preye 

Of hem that yaf him wher-with to scoleye. 

Of studie took he most cur^ and most hede. 

Noght o word spak he more than was nede, 

And that was seyd in form^, and reverence, 305 

And short and quik, and ful of hy sentence. 

Souning^ in moral vertu was his speche, 

And gladly wold^ he lernif, and gladly teche. 

The Sergeant of the Lawe 

A Sergeant of the Lawe, war and wys, 
That often hadde been at the parvys, 310 

Ther was als6, ful richi? of excellence. 
Discreet he was, and of greet reverence : 
He semed swich, his wordes wer^n so wyse. 
Justyc^ he was ful often in assyse, 
By patent.?, and by pleyn commissioun ; 315 

For his science, and for his heigh renoun. 
Of fees and robes hadd.? he many oon. 
So greet a purchasour was no-wher noon. 
Al was fee simple to him in effect, 
His purchasing mighte nat been infect. 320 

No-wher so bisy a man as he ther nas, 
And yet he semed bisier than he was. 
In termes hadd^ he caas and domes alle. 
That from the tym.? of king William wer^ falle, 
Ther-to he coud(? endyte, and mak^ a thing, 325 

Ther coude no wight pinchi? at his wrythig ; 
And ev.?ry statut coud^" he pleyn by rote. 
He rood but hoomly in a medlee cote 
Girt with a ceint of silk, with barres smale ; 
Of his array tell^ I no lenger tale. 33° 

The Frankeleyn 

A Frankeleyn was in his companye ; 
Whyt was his berd, as is the dayes-ye. 



1 8 CHAUCER 

Of his complexioun he was sangwyn. 

Wei \o\eA he by the morvv.? a sop in wyn. 

To hven in delyt was ev^r his wone, 335 

For he was Epicurus owrne sone, 

That heeld opinioun, that pleyn delyt 

Was verraily felicitee parfyt. 

An housholder;?, and that a greet, was he ; 

Seint Julian he was in his contree. 340 

His breed, his ak, was alwey after oon ; 

A bettr^ envyned man was no-wher noon. 

With-oute bake met^ was nev<?r his hous, 

Of fish and flesh, and that so plentevous. 

It snevved in his hous of met.? and drinke, 345 

Of alle deyntees that men coude thinke. 

After the sondry sesons of the yeer, 

So chaunged he his met^ and his sop^r. 

Ful many a fat partrich hadd^ he in mewe. 

And many a breem and many a luc^" in stewe. 350 

Wo was his cook, but-if his sauce were 

Poynaunt and sharp, and redy al his gere. 

His table dormant in his halk alway 

Stood redy covered al the longe day. 

At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire ; 355 

Ful ofte tym<f he was knight of the shire. 

An anlas and a gipser al of silk 

Heng at his girdel, whyt as morne milk. 

A shirrev<f haddt- he been, and a countour ; 

Was no-wher such a worthy vavasour. 360 

The Haberdassher, the Carpenter, the Wehbe, the Dyere, atid 
the Tapicer 

An Haberdassher and a Carpenter, 
A Webb^, a Dver£', and a Tapicer, 
And they wer^ clothed all^ in o liv^ree. 
Of a solempui" and greet fraternitee. 
Ful fresh and wtwc hir gen* apyked was ; 365 

Hir knyves wert- y-chaped noght with bras, 



THE PROLOGUE 19 

But al with silver, wroght ful clen^ and weel, 

Hir girdles and hir pouches ev^ry-deel. 

Wei semed ech of hem a fair burgeys, 

To sitten in a yeldhalk on a deys. 370 

Ev^rich, for the wisdom that he can, 

Was shaply for to been an alderman. 

For catel hadde they y-nogh and rente, 

And eek hir wyves wold^ it wel assente ; 

And elles, certein, were they to blame. 375 

It is ful fair to been y-clept " madame^'' 

And goon to vigilyes al bifore, 

And havi? a mantel royallichd' y-bore. 

The Cook 

A Cook they hadde with hem for the nones. 
To boilk the chiknes with the mary-bones 380 

And poudre-marchant tart and galingale. 
Wel coud^ he know^ a draught.? of London ale. 
He coude rost(?, and seth<?, and broill^, and frye, 
Maken mortreux, and wel bak^ a pye. 
But greet harm was it, as it thoughte me, 385 

That on his shin<? a mormal hadde he ; 
For blankmang^r, that mad.? he with the beste. 

The Ship?nan 

A Shipman was ther, woning fer by waste : 
For aught I woot, he was of Dertemouthe. 
He rood up-on a rouncy, as he couthe, 390 

In a goun^ of falding to the knee. 
A daggers hanging on a laas hadd.? he 
About^ his nekk^ under his arm adoun. 
The bote som^-r had maad his hew.? al broun ; 
And, certeinly, he was a good felawe. 395 

Ful many a draught.? of wyn had he y-drawe 
From Burdeux-ward, whyl that the chapman sleep. 
Of nyce conscience took he no keep. 



20 CHA UCER 

If that he faught, and hadd^ the hyer hond, 

By wat^r he sent.? hem hoom to ev<fry lond. 400 

But of his craft to rekifiie wel his tydes, 

His stremes and his daungers him bisydes, 

His herberw^ and his monif, his lod(fmenage, 

Ther nas noon swich from HuUe to Cartage. 

Hardy he was, and wys to undertake ; 405 

With many a tempest haddi? his herd ben shake. 

He knew wel alk the hav<rnes, as they were, 

From Gootlond to the capi? of Finistere, 

And ev^ry cryk*? in Britayn<? and in Spayne ; 

His barg^ y-cleped was the Maudelayne. 410 

The Doc tour of Phisyk 

With us ther was a Doctour of Phisyk, 
In al this world ne was ther noon him lyk, 
To spek<f of phisik and of surgerye ; 
For he was grounded in astronomye. 
He kept^ his pacient a ful greet del 415 

In houres, by his magik naturel. 
Wel coud<? he fortunen the ascendant 
Of his images for his pacient. 
He knew the caus<? of ev<?rich maladye, 
Wer^ it of hoot or cold, or moists, or drye, 420 

And wher^ engendred, and of what hum6ur; 
He was a verrey parfit practisour. 
The caus<? y know.?, and of his harm the rote. 
Anon he yaf the seke man his bote. 
Ful redy hadd^' he his apothecaries, 425 

To sendif him drogges and his letuaries, 
For ech of hem mad<? other for to winne ; 
Hir frendschipi? nas nat newe to biginne. 
Wel knew he thi? olde Esculapius, 
And Deiscorides, and eek Rufus, 430 

Old Ypocras, Haly, and Galien ; 
Serapion, Razis, and Avicen ; 
Averrois, Ddmascien, and Constantyn ; 



THE PROLOGUE 21 

Bernard, and Gatesden, and Gilbertyn. 

Of his diete mesurabli? was he, 435 

For it was of no superfluitee, 

But of greet norissing and digestible. 

His studii? was but litel on the Bible. 

In sangwin and in pers he clad was al, 

Lyned with taffata and with sendal ; 440 

And yet he was but esy of dispence ; 

He kepte that he wan in pestilence. 

For gold in phisik is a cordial, 

Therfori? he lov^de gold in special. 

The Wyf of Bathe 

A good Wyf was ther of bisyde Bathe, 445 

But she was som-del deef, and that was scathe. 
Of clooth-making she hadde swichi? an haunt, 
She passed hem of Ypres and of Gaunt. 
In al the parissh*? wyf ne was ther noon 
That to th<? offring bifor<f hir sholde goon ; 450 

And if ther did^, certeyn, so wrooth was she, 
That she was out of alle charitee. 
Hir coverchiefs ful fyne wer^ of ground ; 
I dorste swer^ they weyeden ten pound 
That on a Sonday wer^ upon hir heed. 455 

Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed, 
Ful streit^ y-teyd, and shoos ful moisti? and newe. 
Boold was hir fac<?, and fair, and reed of hewe. 
She was a worthy womman al hir lyve ; 
Housbond^s at chirche-dore sh^ hadde fyve, 460 

Withouten other company^ in youthe ; 
(But therof nedeth nat to spek<? as nouthe). 
And thryes hadd*? she been at J<?rusalem ; 
She hadde passed many a straunge streem ; 
At Rom^ she hadde been, and at Boloigne, 465 

In Galic<? at seint Jam^, and at Coloigne. 
She coude much^ of wandring by the weye. 
Gat-tothed was she, soothly for to seye. 



22 CHAUCER 

Up-on an amblers esily she sat, 

Y-wimpled wel, and on hir heed an hat 470 

As brood as is a bok^ler or a targe ; 

A foot-mantel about.? hir hipes large, 

And on hir feet a pair<' of spores sharpe. 

In felawschip wel coudd' she laughs and carpe 

Of remedyi?s of lov.? she knew per-chaunce, 475 

For she coud^ of that art the olde daunce. 

The Pouj'e Pcrsoiin 

A good man was ther of religioun, 
And was a poure Persoun of a toun ; 
But rich^ he was of holy thoght and werk. 
He was also a lerned man, a clerk, 480 

That Cristes gospel trewely wold^ preche ; 
His parisshens devoutly wold^ he teche. 
Benign<? he was, and wonder diligent, 
And in adversitee ful pacient ; 

And swich he was y-preved ofte sythes. 485 

Ful looth wer^ him to cursen for his tythes, 
But rather wold^ he yeven, out of doute, 
Un-to his poure parisshens aboute 
Of his offring, and eek of his substaunce. 
He coudi? in litel thing han suffisaunce. 490 

Wyd was his par/ssh^, and houses fer a-sonder, 
But he ne lafte nat, for reyn ne thonder, 
In siknes nor in meschief, to visyte 
The ferrest^ in his parissh.?, much^ and lyte, 
Up-on his feet, and in his hand a staf. 495 

This nobk ensample to his sheep he yaf, 
That first he wroght^, and afterward he taughte ; 
Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte ; 
And this figur.? he added eek ther-to, 
That if gold ruste, what shal iren do? 500 

For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste, 
No wonder is a lewed man to ruste ; 
And sham^ it is, if a preest take keep. 



THE PROLOGUE 23 

A [dirty] shepherd<? and a clene sheep. 

Wei oght<? a preest ensample for to yive, 505 

By his clenness^, how that his sheep shold Uve. 

He sette nat his benefice' to hyre, 

And leet his sheep encombred in the myre, 

And ran to London, un-to seynt Poules, 

To seken him a chauntery<? for soules, 510 

Or with a bretherheed to been withholde ; 

But dwelt^ at hoom, and kepte wel his folde, 

So that the wolf ne made it nat miscarie ; 

He was a shepherd.? and no mercenarie. 

And though he holy wer^, and vertuous, 515 

He was to sinful man nat despitous, 

Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne, 

But in his teching discreet and benigne. 

To drawen folk to heven by fairnesse 

By good ensample, was his bisinesse : 520 

But it wer^ any person obstinat, 

What-so he weri?, of heigh or low«? estat, 

Him wold^ he snibben sharply for the nones. 

A bettre preest, I trow^ that nowher noon is. 

He wayted aft^r no pompe and reverence, 525 

Ne maked him a spyced conscience, 

But Cristes lor^, and his apostles twelve, 

He taught^, and first he folwed it him-selve. 

The Plowman 

With him ther was a Plowman, was his brother. 
That hadd^ y-lad of dong ful many a fother, 530 

A trewe swinker and a good was he, 
Livings in pees and parfit charitee. 
God lov^d he best with al his hole herte 
At alle tymes, thogh him gam,?d or smerte. 
And thanud' his neighebour right as him-selve. 535 

He wolde thressh<?, and ther-to dyk^ and delve. 
For Cristes sak^, for ev^ry poure wight, 
Withouten hyr^, if it lay in his might. 



24 CIIA UCER 

His tythes payed he ful foir^ and wel, 

Bothif of his propre svvink and his cat^l. 540 

In a tabard he rood upon a mere. 

The Remaining C/iaracfers 

Ther was also a Rev<' and a Millere, 
A Somnour and a Pardoner also, 
A Mauncipk, and my-self ; ther \s&xe na-mo. 

The Miller 

The Miller was a stout carl, for the nones, 545 

Ful big he was of braun, and eek of bones ; 
That proved wel, for ov<fr-al ther he cam, 
At wrastling he wold^ havi? alwey the ram. 
He was short-sholdred, brood, a thikke knarre, 
Ther was no dor^ that he nold(? hev^ of harre, 550 

Or breki? it, at a renning, with his heed. 
His berd as any sow^ or fox was reed. 
And ther-to brood, as thogh it werd' a spade. 
Up-on the cop right of his nos^ he hade 
A wert^, and ther-on stood a tuft of heres, 555 

Reed as the bristles of a sowes eres ; 
His nose-thirles blake wer^* and wyde. 
A swerd and bokder bar he by his syde ; 
His mouth as greet was as a greet forn^ys. 
He was a jangler and a goliardeys, 560 

And that was most of sinni? and harlotryes. 
Wel coud(? he stelen corn, and toUen thryes ; 
And yet he hadd^ a thomb<? of gold, pardee. 
A whyt cot^ and a blew hood wered he. 
A baggepyp^ wel coud^ he blow^ and sowne, 565 

And ther-with-al he broght^ us out of towne. 

The Maunciple 

A gentil Maunciple was ther of a temple, 
Of which achatours mighte tak^ exemple 
For to be wys(? in bying of vitaille. 



THE PROLOGUE 25 

For whether that he payd^, or took by taille, 570 

Algati? he wayted so in his achat, 

That he was ay biforn and in good stat. 

Now is nat that of God a ful fair grace, 

That swich a lewed mannes wit shal pace 

The wisdom of an heep of lerned men ? 575 

Of maistres hadd^ he mo than thryes ten. 

That werif of law^ expert and curious ; 

Of which ther wer^ a doseyn in that hous, 

Worthy to been stiward<fs of rent*? and lond 

Of any lord that is in Engelond, 580 

To mak^ him Hve by his propre good. 

In honour dettelees, but he were wood, 

Or Hv^ as scarsly as him hst desire ; 

And able for to helpen al a shire 

In any cas that mighte falk or happe ; 585 

And yit this mauncipk sett^ hir aller cappe. 

The Reve 

The Reve was a sclendre colmk man, 
His herd was shav^ as ny as ev^-r he can. 
His heer was by his eres round y-shorn. 
His top was dokked lyk a preest biforn. 590 

Ful longe weri? his legges, and ful lene, 
Y-lyk a staf, there was no calf y-sene. 
Wei coudif he kep^ a gerner and a binne ; 
Ther was noon auditour coud<? on him winne. 
Wei wist^ he, by the droght,?, and by the reyn, 595 

The yelding of his seed, and of his greyn. 
His lordes sheep, his neet, his dayerye. 
His swyn, his hors, his stoor, and his pultrye. 
Was hoolly in this reves governing. 
And by his cov<?naunt yaf the rekening, 600 

Sin that his lord was twenty yeer of age ; 
Ther coud^ no man brings him in arrerage. 
There nas baillif, ne herde, we other hyne. 
That he ne knew his sleights and his covyne ; 



26 CHAUCER 

They wer^ adrad of him, as of the deeth. 605 

His woning was ful fair up-on an heeth, 

With grene trees shadwed was his place. 

He coude bettre than his lord purchace. 

Ful rich^ he was astored prively, 

His lord wel coud^ he plesen subtilly, 610 

To yev<? and len<? him of his ow^ne good, 

And have a thank, and yet a cot^ and hood. 

In youths he lerned hadd^ a good mister ; 

He was a wel good wright^, a carpenter. 

This reve sat up-on a ful good stot, 615 

That was al pom<fly grey, and highte Scot. 

A long surcot^ of pers up-on he hade. 

And by his sydd' he bar a rusty blade. 

Of Northfolk was this re\r, of which I telle, 

Bisyd^ a toun men clepen Baldeswelle. 620 

Tukked he was, as is a frer^, aboute. 

And ev<?r he rood the hindresti? of our route. 

The Somnour 

A Somnour was ther with us in that place, 
That hadd^ a fyr-reed cherubinnes face. 
For sawcefleem he was, with eyen narwe. 625 

[And quyk] he was, and [chirped] as a sparwe ; 
With scalled browes blak(?, and piled berd ; 
Of his visage children wer^ aferd. 
Ther nas quik-silver, litarg^, ne brimstoon, 
Boras, ceruce, n^ oilk of tartre noon, 630 

Ne oynement that wolde clensi? and byte. 
That him mights helpen of his whelkes whyte, 
Nor of the knobbes sitting(f on his chekes. 
Wel lov^'d he garleek, oynons, and eek lekes, 
And for to drinken strong wyn, reed as blood. 635 

Thanni? wold^ he spek<?, and cry<? as he wer<f wood. 
And whan that he wel dronken hadd^ the wyn. 
Than wold<f he speke no word but Latyn. 
A fewe termes hadd^ he, two or three. 
That he had lerned out of som decree ; 640 



THE PROLOGUE 2/ 

No wonder is, he herd*? it al the day ; 
And eek ye knowen wel, how that a jay 
Can clepen " Watt^," as wel as can the pope. 
But who-so coud^ in other thing him grope, 
Thann^ hadd^ he spent al his philosophye ; 645 

Ay " Questio quidiuris" woldi? he crye. 
He was a gentil harlot and a kinde ; 
A bettre felaw<? sholde men noght finde. 
He wolde suffre, for a quart of wyn, 
A good felaw^ to [have his wikked syn] 650 

A twelf-month, and excuse him atte fuUe : 
Ful prively a finch eek coud^ he puUe. 
And if he fond o-wher a good felawe, 
He wolde techen him to hav^ non awe, 
In swich cas, of the erchedeknes curs, 655 

But-if a mannes soul<? wer^ in his purs ; 
For in his purs he sholde y-punissh^d be. 
" Purs is the erchedeknes hell<?," seyd^ he. 
But wel I woot, he lyed right in dede ; 
Of cursing oght<? ech gilty man him drede — 660 

For curs wol slee, right as assoilling saveth — 
And also war him of a Significavit. 
In daunger hadd^ he at his ow^ne gyse 
'The yonge girles of the diocyse, 

And knew hir counseil, and was al hir reed. 665 

A gerland haddd? he set up-on his heed, 
As greet as it wer^ for an ale-stake ; 
A bok(?ler haddi? he maad him of a cake. 

The Pardoner 

With him ther rood a gentil Pardoner 

Of Rouncival, his freend and his compeer, 670 

That streight was comen fro the court of Rome. 

Ful loud<? he song, " Com hider, love, t6 me." 

This somnour bar to him a stif burdoun, 

Was never tromp^ of half so greet a soun. 

This pardoner hadd^ heer as yel(7w as wex, 675 

But smoth^ it heng, as dooth a stryk^ of flex ; 



CHA UCER 

By ounces heng^ his lokkes that he hadde, 

And ther-with he his shuldres overspradde ; 

But thinne it lay, by colpons oon and oon ; 

But hood, for joHtee, ne wer^d he noon, 680 

For it was trussed up in his wal^t. 

Him thoughts, he rood al of the newe jet ; 

DischevHee, savi? his capp^, he rood al bare. 

Swichi? glarings eyen hadd^ he as an hare. 

A vernick hadd^ he sowed on his cappe. 685 

His walet lay biforn him in his lappe, 

Bret-ful of pardon conii? from Rom^ al hoot, . 

A voys he hadd^ as smal as any goot. 

No berd haddi? he, ne never sholde have. 

As smothi? it was as it wer^ lat<? y-shave ; 690 

I trow^ [his chek^ and eek his chin wer<? bare.] 

But of his craft, fro Berwik into Ware, 

Ne was ther swich another pardoner. 

For in his mal<? he hadd^ a pihve-beer. 

Which that, he seyde, was our lady veyl : 695 

He seyd^, he haddi? a gobet of the seyl 

That seynt Peter hadd^, whan that he wente 

Up-on the see, til Jesu Crist him hente. 

He hadd(? a croys of latoun, ful of stones, 

And in a glas he hadde pigges bones. 700 

But with thisi? relikes, whan that he fond 

A poure person dwelling up-on lond, 

Up-on a day he gat him mor^ moneye 

Than that the person gat in monthes tweye. 

And thus, with feyned flateryi? and japes, 705 

He mad^ the person and the pepk his apes. 

But trewely to tellen, atte laste. 

He was in chirchi? a nobl<? ecclesiaste. 

Wei coudi? he red(? a lessoun or a storie, 

But alderbest he song an offert6rie ; 710 

For wel he wiste, whan tliat song was songe. 

He moste prech^, and wel affyk his tonge, 

To winne silver, as he ful wel coude ; 

Therefore he song so merily and loude. 



THE PROLOGUE 29 



Chaucer's statemeyit of his pjirpose 

Now have I told you shortly, in a clause, 715 

Thestat, tharray, the nombr^, and eek the cause 
Why that assembled was this companye 
In Southwerk, at this gentil hostelrye, 
That hight^ the Tabard, faste by the Belle. 
But now is tyme to yow for to telle 720 

How that we baren us that ilke night. 
Whan we wer^ in that hostelry<? alight. 
And after wol I telk of our viage, 
And al the rem(?naunt of our pilgrimage. 



His justification of any possible coarseness or defects in his poem 

But first I pray yow, of your curteisye, 725 

That ye narett^ it nat my vileinye, 

Thogh that I pleynly spek^ in this mature, 

To telle yow hir wordes and hir chere ; 

Ne thogh I spek(? hir wordes proprely. 

For this ye knowen al-so wel as I, 730 

Who-so shal tell^ a tak after a man, 

He moot reherc^, as ny as ev^r he can, 

Ev^rich a word, if it be in his charge, 

Al spek^ he nev^r so rudelich,? and large ; 

Or elles he moot telk his taU' untrewe, 735 

Or feyne thing, or finde wordes newe. 

He may nat spare, al-thogh he weri? his brother ; 

He moot as wel seyi? o word as another. 

Crist spak him-self ful brod^ in holy writ, 

And wel ye woot, no vileinye is it. 740 

Eek Plato seith, who-so that can him rede. 

The wordes mot*? be cosin to the dede. 

Also I prey yow to foryevi? it me, 

Al hav^ I nat set folk in hir degree 

Her^ in this tal^, as that they sholde stonde ; 745 

My wit is short, ye may wel understonde. 



30 CHAUCER 

The Host and his plan for entertaining the pilgrims 

Greet chere mad<? our host*? us ev(?richon, 
And to the soper setti? he us anon ; 
And served us with vitailk at the beste. 
Strong was the wyn, and wel to drinks us leste. 750 

A sem^ly man our hoste was with-alle 
For to han been a marshal in an halle ; 
A large man he was with eyen stepe, 
A fairer burgeys is ther noon in Chepe : 
Boold of his spech^, and wys, and wel y-taught, 755 

And of manhood him lakkede right naught. 
Eek ther-to he was right a mery man, 
And after soper pleyen he bigan, 
And spak of mirths' amonges oth^re thinges, 
Whan that we hadde maad our rekeninges ; 760 

And seyde thus : " Now, lording^s, trewely, 
Ye been to me right welcom<? hertely : 
For by my trouth^, if that I shal nat lye, 
I we saugh this yeer so mery a companye 
At ones in this herb^rwe as is now. 765 

Fayn wold^ I doon yow mirthe, wist*? I how. 
And of a mirths I am right now bithoght, 
To doon yow es^, and it shal coste noght. 

" Ye goon to Caunterbury ; God yow spede, 
The blisful martir quyte yow your mede. 770 

And wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye, 
Ye shapen yow to talen and to pleye ; 
For trewely, comf6rt ne mirths is noon 
To ryde by the wey^ doumb as a stoon ; 
And therfor<? wol I maken yow disport, 775 

As I seyd^ erst, and doon yow som confort. 
And if yow lyketh all^, by oon assent, 
Now for to stonden at my jugement, 
And for to werken as I shal yow seye, 
To-morwe, whan ye ryden by the weye, 7S0 

Now, by my fader soule, that is deed. 
But ye be meryi?, I wol yev<f yow myn heed. 



THE PROLOGUE' 3 1 

Hold up your bond, withouten more speche." 

Our counseil was nat longe for to seche ; 
Us thought*? it was noght worth to make it wys, 7S5 

And graunted him withouten more avys, 
And bad him sey*? his verdit, as him leste. 

" Lording^s," quod he, " now herkneth for the beste ; 
But tak<? it not, I prey yow, in desdeyn ; 
This is the point, to speken short and pleyn, 790 

That ech of yow, to shorte with your weye, 
In this viag^, shal telle tales tweye, 
To Caunterbury-ward, I men<? it so. 
And hom-ward he shal tellen oth<?re two, 
Of aventurd-s that whylom han bifalle \ 795 

And which of yow that ber<?th him best of alle, 
That is to seyn, that telleth in this cas 
Tales of best sent6nc<? and most solas, 
Shal have a soper at our aller cost 

Her*? in this place, sitting by this post, 800 

Whan that we com<? agayn fro Caunterbury. 
And for to make yow the more mery, 
I wol my-selven gladly with yow ryde. 
Right at myn ow^ne cost, and be your gyde. 
And who-so wol my jugement withseye 805 

Shal pay^ al that we spenden by the weye. 
And if ye vouche-sauf that it be so, 
Tel me anon, with-outen wordes mo, 
And I wol erly shape me therfore." 

The acceptance of the Hosfs proposal 

This thing was graunted, and our othes swore 810 

With ful glad hert<?, and preyden him also 
That he wold vouche-sauf for to do so. 
And that he wolde been our governour, 
And of our tales jug^ and r^portour. 
And sett^ a soper at a certeyn prys ; 815 

And we wold reuled been at his devys. 
In heigh and lovvi? ; and thus, by oon assent, 
We been acorded to his jugement. 



32 . CHAUCER 

And ther-up-on the wyn was fet anon ; 

We dronken, and to reste went«? echon, 820 

With-outen any lenger taryinge. 



The morrow, and the prosecution of the plan 

A-morvve, whan that day bigan to springe, 
Up roos our hosti?, and was our aller cok, 
And gadred(? us togidr(?, alk in a flok, 
And forth we rid^n, a litel mori? than pas, 825 

Un-to the watering of seint Thomas. 
And ther<? our host bigan his hors areste, 
And seyde ; " Lording^-s, herkneth, if yow leste. 
Ye woot your forward, and I h yow recorde. 
If even-song and morwe-song acorde, 830 

Lat see now who shal telk the firste tale. 
As ever mot<? I drinke wyn or ale, 
Who-so be rebel to my jugement 
Shal payi? for al that by the wey(? is spent. 
Now draweth cut, er that we ferrer twinne ; 835 

He which that hath the shortest shal biginne. 
Sir^ knight," quod he, " my maister and my lord, 
Now draweth cut, for that is myn acord. 
Coniifth neer," quod he, " my lady prioresse ; 
And ye, sir clerk, lat be your shamfastnesse, 840 

Ne studieth noght ; ley bond to, ev^ry man." 

Anon to drawen ev^ry wight bigan, 
And shortly for to tellen, as it was. 
Were it by aventure, or sort, or cas. 
The soth(? is this, the cut fil to the knight, 845 

Of which ful blyth^ and glad was ev^ry wight ; 
And telk he mosti? his tak, as was resoun, 
By forward and by composicioun. 
As ye han herd ; what nedeth wordes mo? 
And whan this gode man saugh it was so, 850 

As he that wys was and obedient 
To kep^ his forward by his free assent, 



THE PROLOGUE 33 

He seyde : " Sin I shal biginn*? the game, 

What, welcome be the cut, a Goddes name ! 

Now lat us ryd^, and herkneth what I seye." 855 

And with that word we riden forth our weye ; 
And he bigan with right a mery chere 
His tall? anon, and seyd*? in this manure. 

Here endeth the prolog of this book. 



CHAPTER III 

THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY 

THE IMITATORS OF CHAUCER; THE RENAISS.\NCE ; THE 
PRINTING PRESS; THE BALLAD 

The fifteenth century is ordinarily regarded as the most barren 
period in English literary history. It is true that the century produced 
no poet who can be considered in any way comparable with Chaucer, 
or who may be regarded as having any place among the greater English 
poets. Various explanations for this literary inactivity have been sug- 
gested. Some believe that it was owing to the distracting influence 
of the civil and foreign wars which so largely make up the history of 
the age ; others, that the intellectual energies of the nation were too 
largely centred in an effort to discard, once for all, the mediaeval 
fashion of thought and expression — the lifeless formalities of tradition 
— and to fit itself out anew with the free and flowing garments of culture 
and romance presented by the Italian Renaissance. 

However, this period, though barren of great poets, is by no means 
unimportant in the historical development of our poetry. In the first 
place its literary judgment was sufficiently true to recognize in a Chaucer 
the master that he was. A considerable school of imitators followed 
him, both in Scotland, where the productions at times attain to a really 
high standard, and in England, where the verse, though of third-rate 
excellence, did much to preserve Chaucer's standard of poetic style, and 
to insure the permanence and the nationalization of the East Midland 
dialect which he had used. 

More important than the actual literary output of this period is the 
wonderful intellectual impulse which England was beginning to receive 
through the inspiration of the Renaissance. Many new schools were 
organized. Oxford and Cambridge grew apace. The great uni- 
versities of Scotland sprang up. The literature of the classics was 
studied, and the taste and culture of ancient Greece and Rome again 
became the possession of the world. The scholasticism of the Middle 
Ages, with its musty and pedantic controversies concerning matters of 
no actual significance, shrivelled away before the vivifying and illuminat- 

34 



THE PRINTING PRESS 35 

ing blaze of the new learning. Finally the mediaeval romantic poetry, 
by whose influence France had dominated English letters to the time 
of Chaucer, gave place to a poetry dominated for nearly three centuries 
by the influence of Italy. 

But one event of the fifteenth century has played a greater part than 
any other — perhaps greater than all others combined — in the develop- 
ment of literature. The printing press was invented in Germany near 
the middle of the century, and was brought into England by Caxton 
about 1476. In our present day of many books it is hard to imagine 
the situation that had existed before printing lent its aid to the dis- 
semination of thought. After 1476 it was for the first time possible 
in England that the world of letters might become the actual possession 
of the world of men. Among the hundred volumes that came from 
Caxton's press were two or three editions of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, 
as well as the Morte DartJmr of Sir Thomas Malory, a splendid work in 
prose, which, as we shall see, was destined to be the forerunner of 
Tennyson's Idylls of the King. 

As has been said, no English poets of the fifteenth century attained 
to any considerable eminence. But in spite of this fact the literary im- 
portance of this period will be apparent when we note that, in all proba- 
bility, this was the especial springtide of most of our finest old English 
ballads. While, therefore, the more formal and artistic poetry was 
absent, this popular lyric strain in English verse reached a higher level 
than any to which it had previously risen. As a factor in awakening 
the poetic sensibilities of the whole people, in increasing the flexibility 
of English verse forms, and in furnishing, through their sincerity and 
directness and simplicity, a model for all subsequent " literary " poets, 
the importance of these ballads cannot easily be overestimated. They 
are, for the most part, the work of unknown authors, — unwritten songs 
from the heart of the people, handed down from generation to gener- 
ation. Constantly added to, constantly changing, they appear as a 
growth, rather than a conscious literary production ; and they are a 
growth for which much credit must be given to this so-called " barren " 
fifteenth century. 



CHAPTER IV 
THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY 

I. THE PRE-ELIZABETHAN ERA — A PERIOD OF TREPARATION 

The Renaissance in England bore fruit more tardily than in most 
other European countries. Here, both in the fifteenth century and in 
the early part of the sixteenth, there was in existence a process of 
absorption and unconscious growth, sooner or later destined to find ex- 
pression in a new English literature. Presently, under the impulse of 
these influences, poetry began to assume the form and spirit of modern 
English verse. As we have seen, the prime stimulus was derived from 
Italy; and with two English noblemen, Italian travellers and scholars, 
this new poetry really had its origin. These students of the literary art 
of Italy were Sir Thomas Wyatt and Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. 
Though neither of the two can in any sense be considered an eminent 
poet, still their influence on our literature was so opportune that they 
deserve at least a passing glance. 

WvATT (i 503-1 542) was a native of Kent and a graduate of Cam- 
bridge. He was a favorite at the court of Henry VIII, and was sent 
by the king on numerous missions to foreign countries. This life 
familiarized him with the best literature of the time and did much to 
develop his style ; for Wyatt was very early a maker of verse. He ex- 
perimented with many forms of rhyme and metre, the most important 
of which was the sonnet, a stanza devised by Petrarch, the sweet Italian 
lyrist of the fourteenth century. To Wyatt, accordingly, the English 
language owes what has always been regarded as one of its most 
expressive and harmonious verse forms. 

Surrey (1518-1547) was both friend and disciple of Wyatt. He was 
educated at Oxford, became popular at court, served with distinction in 
a war with France, travelled and studied in Italy. At length, falling 
under the displeasure of King Henry, he was accused of treason and 
Ijeheaded at the early age of twenty-nine. Though less serious and 
thoughtful than Wyatt, he shows in his poetry a livelier wit and a more 
delicate fancy. He not only tried his hand at practically all the metres 
which his master had attempted, but went farther by adding one which 
has proved of the very highest importance in English poetry, — the 

36 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 37 

iambic pentameter blank verse. It is barely possible that Surrey in- 
vented this verse form, but more probable that he adopted it from the 
Italians, among whom it was just coming into use. He employed it in 
his translation of the second and fourth books of VirgiTs yEneid; it 
was soon adopted by Sackville in the versification of Fer?-ex and Porrex; 
the first regular English tragedy ; it was later developed by Marlowe, 
the earliest of the greater Elizabethan dramatists ; and it was finally 
brought to its perfection in the " dramatic blank " of Shakespeare's 
plays and in the " epic blank '' of Milton's longer poems. 

Undoubtedly Wyatt and Surrey never thought of publishing their 
poems ; nor did the general public know of these verses until Surrey 
had been dead ten, and Wyatt fifteen, years. It was at this time 
that a printer by the name of Richard Tottel brought out a collection 
of poems, worthy of our attention as the first of the kind in modern 
English poetry. Of this collection, Totters Miscellany (1557), nearly 
one hundred poems were written by Wyatt, about forty by Surrey, and 
not far from a hundred and fifty by various and " uncertain authors." 
By this volume the English world was introduced to a species of poetry 
entirely new, not only in form, but also in subject and in treatment. 
The poems were nearly all lyrics, many of them sonnets, intensely 
personal, and written on the subject of the joys and sorrows of their 
authors' loves. But by means of this book a new standard was set 
for English verse, the preparation of a century and a half had borne its 
fruitage, and the " Elizabethan age" was ushered in. 

2. THE ELIZABETHAN AGE — THE FIRST GRE.A.T CREATIVE 

PERIOD 

The first twenty years after the accession of Elizabeth, in 1558, are, 
to a great extent, years of experiment in literature, rather than years of 
actual performance. In all departments of literary production — prose, 
the drama, and non-dramatic poetry — we see these experiments every- 
where in progress, and instinctively feel that their success is near at 
hand. Circumstances were now favorable for the active outburst of the 
mighty forces which England had been storing up for the past two 
centuries. The people were prosperous and contented. A national 
spirit pervaded the country as never before. Civil and religious dis- 
turbances had, for the time, ceased. Commerce was sailing every sea. 
A spirit of knightly adventure was in the air. Men were coming more 
and more to realize the possibilities of life in this old world of ours. All 
classes vied with each other in enthusiastic devotion to the virgin queen. 
In this epoch of splendid energy it was but natural that the greatness 
of England should find some adequate expression ; and it found that 



38 THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY 

expression in the magnificent poems and dramas which distinguish this, 
the greatest creative period of her literature. 

The chief distinction of this age is undoubtedly the wonderful de- 
velopment of the English drama. A consideration of that form of 
literature is foreign to the purposes of this volume ; and we must there- 
fore be satisfied to accord to it here merely the briefest mention. 
Omitting all reference to the growth of the drama in its earlier forms, 
and passing over a large group of minor dramatists who of themselves 
would have given distinction to any lesser age, we may select for notice 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE (1564-1593), Shakespeare's greatest predeces- 
sor; the scholarly ben jonson (1573-1637), an intellectual giant in 
more ways than one; and, chief of all (1564-1616), the immortal Bard 
of Avon. The general verdict of his countrymen ranks Shakespeare 
as incomparably the first of English poets. And not a few of other 
than Anglo-Saxon birth will subscribe to the words of Carlyle, who says 
in his Heroes and Hero Worship, "■ I think the best judgment, not of 
this country only but of Europe at large, is pointing to the conclusion 
that Shakespeare is the chief of all poets hitherto ; the greatest intellect 
who in our recorded world has left a record of himself in literature." 
This, therefore, was a golden achievement of the Elizabethan age : 
that Shakespeare and Jonson and Marlowe and a score of others created 
a dramatic literature which the succeeding three hundred years failed to 
equal in any particular. 

But if Shakespeare had never lived and the marvel of Elizabethan 
drama had never flashed upon the world, this period would still be 
memorable in the history of English poetry. The subject with which this 
age chiefly concerned itself in literary art, as in everyday life, was man 
under the stress of powerful emotion — of passion. The love sonnets 
and other lyrics of the age are unexcelled in their spontaneous vigor, 
beauty, and sincerity. Some one has said that England was at this 
time " a nest of singing birds." At no other time in her history and 
possibly in no other voice, save that of Burns, has the " singing note " 
rung so true and clear as from this throng of Elizabethan minor poets. 
But standing apart from these minor songsters on the one hand and 
from the dramatists on the other, was one who would have lent dis- 
tinction to the age in which he lived even if, as was the case of Chaucer, 
he had been almost its only poet. This was the poet of pastoral and 
allegory, edmund spenser. 

EDMUND SPENSER (1552-1599) 

Edmund Spenser, " the poet and prophet of beauty," was born in 
London in 1552. Though without the humor of Chaucer, or the dra- 



EDMUND SPENSER 39 

matic power and intensity of Shakespeare, or the sublimity of Milton, 
or the reflective insight of Wordsworth, Spenser nevertheless was the 
possessor of gifts which rank him honorably with these masters of 
English poetry. It is true that the qualities which distinguish his 
poetry are not such as tend to make him well known to the general 
reader of to-day ; yet he has exerted an influence on writers and lovers 
of poetry sufficient to secure for him, above all others, the title of "the 
poet's poet." In the softness and melody of his verse, the luxurious 
richness and harmony of his colorings, the delicacy of his fanciful con- 
ceptions, his sensitiveness to beauty of every form, — in short, in the 
imaginative and sensuous, the purely " poetical," no Englishman has 
surpassed, and few have ever approached him. 

1552-1580. — Of Spenser's early life little is known. His parents, 
though of good birth, were evidently poor, for we find the future poet 
at the age of seventeen enrolled at Pembroke College, Cambridge, as a 
sizar, or charity student. Having duly taken his master's degree at the 
age of twenty-four, he spent two years in the north of England, probably 
with relatives in Lancashire. On his return south in 1578, he was intro- 
duced by a college friend to the influential Earl of Leicester, and to Sir 
Philip Sidney, the nephew of the earl. By the next year he had written 
his Shepheardes Calender, an eclogue, or pastoral, in twelve books, one 
for each month of the year. Through the efforts of Leicester he 
received about this time an appointment as secretary to Lord Gray, the 
new Lord Deputy of Ireland ; and thereafter that island, then lawless 
and turbulent, was destined to be the poet's home. 

1580-1599. — Spenser continued to hold various official positions in 
his new home, and in 1588 secured for himself the grant of Kilcolman 
Castle and its estate, situated in County Cork. Here he was visited the 
next year by Sir Walter Raleigh, who found the poet in the midst of 
his great epic, the Faerie Qneene, of which he had already written the 
first three books. Raleigh was so delighted with the poem that he per- 
suaded its author to take it to London, where it was received with an 
equal delight. Spenser, as an unwilling suitor for the favor of the court, 
seems to have spent nearly two years in this visit to England ; and dur- 
ing that time he published not only this earlier portion of the Faerie 
Qiieene, but also a volume of his minor poems. Having received a 
pension of fifty pounds, he returned to his Irish estate, where he was 
married in 1594. The next year he came again to London with three 
more books of his great poem, which he published together with his 
Prothalaniion and other minor poems. Again returning to Ireland he 
was made sheriff of Cork — an office to which he had scarcely been 
appointed when a rebellion broke out, and his house was burned. He 



40 THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY 

was compelled to flee with his family for safety, first to Cork and then 
to London, where, broken in spirit and fortune, he died soon after his 
arrival, January, 1599. ^^ ^^^ buried in Westminster Abbey, not far 
from the tomb of Chaucer. 

Of Spenser's poems, both the ProtJialamion and the EpitJtala7nion are 
stately strains remarkable both for their thought and for the melody of 
their verse. But the Faerie Qiieene will always be most intimately 
associated with the poet's name, not only because it is his most con- 
siderable work, but also because it ranks with the most nobly conceived 
and executed of England's ideal poems. As Lowell says, it is "a land 
of pure heart's ease." Although Spenser completed little more than 
half his original design, the epic is still very long. We shall here give 
only a few lines from the first canto — lines which may serve to illus- 
trate the style and character of the production, as well as to show the 
original " Spenserian stanza," a verse-form which Spenser invented and 
which bears his name. 



STANZAS FROM 
THE FIRST BOOKE OF THE FAERIE QUEENE 

CONTAYNING 

THE LEGENDE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE RED CROSSE, 
OR OF HOLINESSE 



Lo ! I, the man whose Muse whylome did maske, 
As time her taught, in lowly Shephards weeds, 
Am now enforst, a farre unfitter taske, 
For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine oaten reeds, 
And sing of knights and ladies gentle deeds 
Whose prayses having slept in silence long, 
Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds 
To blazon broade emongst her learned throng : 
Fierce warres and faithfuU loves shall moralize my song. 



Helpe then, O holy Virgin, chiefe of nyne, lo 

Thy weaker novice to performe thy will ; 
Lay forth out of thine everlasting scryne 
The antique rolles, which there lye hidden still. 
Of Faerie knights, and fayrest Tanaquill, 
Whom that most noble Briton Prince so long 15 

Sought through the world, and suffered so much ill. 
That I must rue his undeserved wrong : 
O, helpe thou my weake wit, and sharpen my dull tong ! 

Ill 

And thou, most dreaded impe of highest Jove, 
Faire Venus sonne, that with thy cruell dart 20 

At that good knight so cunningly didst rove, 
41 



42 



SPENSER 



That glorious fire it kindled in his hart ; 
Lay now thy deadly heben bowe apart, 
And with thy mother mylde come to mine ayde ; 
Come, both ; and with you bring triumphant Mart, 25 

In loves and gentle jollities arrayd, 
After his murderous spoyles and bloudie rage allayd. 



And with them eke, O Goddesse heavenly bright, 
Mirrour of grace, and majestie divine. 
Great Ladie of the greatest Isle, whose light 30 

Like Phoebus lampe throughout the world doth shine. 
Shed thy faire beames into my feeble eyne, 
And raise my thoughtes, too humble and too vile, 
To thinke of that true glorious type of thine, 
The argument of mine afflicted stile : 35 

The which to heare vouchsafe, O dearest Dred, a while. 



CANTO I 

The patron of true Halinesse 
Foule Errour doth defeate ; 

Hvpocrisie, him to cntrappe, 
Doth to his home entrcate. 



A gentle Knight was pricking on the plaine, 
Ycladd in mightie armes and silver shielde. 
Wherein old dints of deepe woundes did remaine, 
The cruell markes of many a bloudy fielde ; 40 

Yet armes till that time did he never wield : 
His angry steede did chide his foming bitt, 
As much disdayning to the curbe to yield : 
Full jolly knight he seemd, and faire did sitt. 
As one for knighty giusts and fierce encounters fitt, 45 



FAERIE QUEENE 43 



And on his brest a bloudie crosse he bore, 
The deare remembrance of his dying Lord, 
For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore, 
And dead, as Hving ever, him ador'd : 
Upon his shield the hke was also scor'd, 50 

For soveraine hope, which in his helpe he had : 
Right, faithfull, true he was in deede and word ; 
But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad ; 
Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad. 



Upon a great adventure he was bond, 55 

That greatest Gloriana to him gave, 
That greatest glorious Queene of Faerie lond. 
To winne him worshippe, and her grace to have. 
Which of all earthly thinges, he most did crave ; 
And ever as he rode, his hart did earne, 60 

To prove his puissance in battell brave 
Upon his foe, and his new force to learne ; 
Upon his foe, a Dragon horrible and stearne. 

IV 

A lovely Ladie rode him faire beside, 

Upon a lowly asse more white then snow ; 65 

Yet she much whiter ; but the same did hide 
Under a vele, that wimpled was full low ; 
And over all a blacke stole shee did throw : 
As one that inly mournd, so was she sad. 
And heavie sate upon her palfry slow ; 70 

Seemed in heart some hidden care she had ; 
And by her in a line a milke- white lambe she lad. 



So pure and innocent, as that same lambe. 
She was in life and every vertuous lore ; 



44 SPENSER 

And by descent from royall lynage came 75 

Of ancient kinges and queenes, that had of yore 
Their scepters stretcht from east to westerne shore, 
And all the world in their subjection held ; 
Till that infernall feend with foule uprore 
Forwasted all their land, and them expeld ; 80 

Whom to avenge she had this Knight from far compeld. 

VI 

Behind her farre away a Dwarfe did lag, 
That lasie seemd, in being ever last. 
Or wearied with bearing of her bag 

Of needments at his backe. Thus as they past, 85 

The day with cloudes was suddeine overcast, 
And angry Jove an hideous storme of raine 
Did poure into his lemans lap so fast. 
That everie wight to shrowd it did constrain ; 
And this faire couple eke to shroud themselves were fain, 90 

VII 

Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, 
A shadie grove not farr away they spide, 
That promist ayde the tempest to withstand ; 
Whose loftie trees, yclad with sommers pride. 
Did spred so broad, that heavens light did hide, 95 

Not perceable with power of any starr : 
And all within were pathes and alleles wide, 
With footing worne, and leading inward farr : 
Faire harbour that them seemes ; so in they entred arre. 

vm 

And foorth they passe, with pleasure forward led, 100 

Joying to heare the birdes sweete harmony. 
Which, therein shrouded from the tempest dred, 
Seemd in their song to scorne the cruell sky. 
Much can they praise the trees so straight and hy. 



FAERIE QUEENE 45 

The sayling pine, the cedar proud and tall, 105 

The vine-propp elme, the poplar never dry, 
The builder oake, sole king of forrests all, 
The aspine good for staves, the cypresse funerall, 



The laurell, meed of mightie conquerours 
And poets sage, the firre that weepeth still, 
The willow, worne of forlorne paramours, 
The eugh, obedient to the benders will, 
The birch for shaftes, the sallow for the mill. 
The mirrhe sweete-bleeding in the bitter wound. 
The warlike beech, the ash for nothing ill, 
The fruitfull olive, and the platane round. 
The carver holme, the maple seeldom inward sound. 



Led with delight, they thus beguile the way, 
Untill the blustring storme is overblowne ; 
When, weening to returne whence they did stray, 120 

They cannot finde that path, which first was showne, 
But wander too and fro in wayes unknowne. 
Furthest from end then, when they neerest weene, 
That makes them doubt their wits be not their owne : 
So many pathes, so many turnings seene, 125 

That which of them to take, in diverse doubt they been. 

XI 

At last resolving forward still to fare. 
Till that some end they finde, or in or out, 
That path they take, that beaten seemd most bare, 
And like to lead the labyrinth about ; 130 

Which when by tract they hunted had throughout, 
At length it brought them to a hollowe cave. 
Amid the thickest woods. The Champion stout 
Eftsoones dismounted from his courser brave. 
And to the Dwarfe a while his needlesse spere he gave. 135 



46 SPENSER 

XII 

" Be well aware," quoth then that Ladie milde, 
" Least suddaine mischiefe ye too rash provoke : 
The danger hid, the place unknowne and wilde, 
Breedes dreadfuU doubts : oft fire is without smoke, 
And perill without show : therefore your stroke, 140 

Sir Knight, withhold, till further tryall made." 
"Ah Ladie," sayd he, "shame were to revoke 
The forward footing for an hidden shade : 
Vertue gives her selfe light through darknesse for to wade." 

XIII 

" Yea, but," quoth she, " the perill of this place 145 

I better wot than you : though nowe too late 
To wish you backe returne with foule disgrace, 
Yet vvisedome warnes, whilst foot is in the gate, 
To stay the steppe, ere forced to retrate. 
This is the wandring wood, this Errours den, 150 

A monster vile, whom God and man does hate : 
Therefore I read beware." " Fly, fly," quoth then 
The fearful Dvvarfe ; "This is no place for living men." 

XIV 

But, full of fire an greedy hardiment, 
The youthfuU Knight could not for ought be staide ; 155 
But forth unto the darksom hole he went. 
And looked in : his glistring armor made 
A litle glooming light, much like a shade ; 
By which he saw the ugly monster plaine, 
Halfe like a serpent horribly displaide, 160 

But th' other halfe did womans shape retaine. 
Most lothsom, filthie, foule, and full of vile disdaine. 

[This " serpent " was the dragon Error, and with her the Knight now does battle. 
Having overcome Error and her serpent brood, the Knight and lady wander on, 
finally making their way out of the wood. They soon meet with " an aged sire, 
in long black weeds," with " feet all bare and beard all hoary gray," who leads them 
to his hermitage for shelter. But this seeming holy hermit is really an enchanter, 



SONNET 47 

the personification of hypocrisy ; and, by his black arts, he sends such dreams to the 
good Knight as make him doubt the worth of the lady whom he has been trying 
to aid. 

Thus ends the first canto, of nearly sixty stanzas, or over five hundred lines. After 
eleven other cantos, similarly describing the wonderful adventures of the Knight 
and lady, the First Book ends with their betrothal, — a union of " Holiness "and 
" Truth." The succeeding five books tell the stories of similar services rendered to 
the " Faerie Queene."] 



SONNET 

To the Right Noble and Valorous Knight, 

SIR WALTER RALEIGH, 

Lord Wardeifi of the Stanncryes, and Lieftenatint of Cornewaile 

To thee that art the Sommers Nightingale, 

Thy soveraigne Goddesses most deare dehght, 

Why doe I send this rusticke madrigale, 

That may thy tunefull eare unseason quite ? 
Thou onely fit this argument to write, ■ 

In whose high thoughts Pleasure hath built her bowre, 

And dainty Love learnd sweetly to endite. 

My rimes I know unsavory and sowre, 
To taste the streames, that, like a golden showre. 

Flow from thy fruitfull head, of thy Loves praise ; k 

Fitter perhaps to thunder martiall stowre, 

When so thee list thy loftie Muse to raise : 
Yet, till that thou thy poeme wilt make knowne, 
Let thy faire Cinthias praises be thus rudely showne. 



48 SHAKESPEARE 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616) 

The glory of Shakespeare rests chiefly upon his achievements as dramatist, and 
an account of his life and works does not, therefore, come within the scope of this 
book. But to send forth a volume of representative English poems which does not 
include some production of the greatest poet of our tongue would be an anomaly. 
Since it would be impossible to print here one of Shakespeare's plays, it has 
seemed wise to let the poet speak through a few of the best of his sonnets. They 
were written probably between 1593 and 1603, most of them about 1594-1595. 



FIVE SONNETS 

XVIII 

Shall I coiTipare thee to a Sommers day? 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate : 
Rough windes do shake the darling buds of Maie, 
And Sommers lease hath all too short a date : 
Soinetime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd ; 
And every faire from faire sometime declines, 
By chance, or natures changing course, untrim'd ; 
But thy eternall Sommer shall not fade, 
Nor loose possession of that faire thou ow'st ; 
Nor shall Death brag thou wandr'st in his shade, 
When in eternall lines to time thou grow'st : 
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, 
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 

XXIX 

When in disgrace with Fortune and mens eyes, 

I all alone beweepe my outcast state, 

And trouble deafe Heaven with my bootlesse cries, 

And looke upon myselfe, and curse my fate. 

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 

Featur'd like him, like him with friends possest, 

Desiring this mans art, and that mans skope 

With what I most injoy contented least ; 

Yet in these thoughts myselfe almost despising, 



SONNETS 49 

Haplye I thinke on thee, — and then my state 
(Like to the larke at breake of daye arising 25 

From sullen earth) sings himns at heavens gate ; 
For thy sweet love remembred, such welth brings, 
That then 1 skorne to change my state with Kings. 

XXX 

When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought 

I sommon up remembrance of things past, 30 

I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought. 

And with old woes now waile my deare times waste : 

Then can I drowne an eye unus'd to flow, 

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, 

And weepe afresh loves long-since canceld woe, 35 

And nione the expence of many a vannisht sight. 

Then can I greeve at greevances foregon, 

And heavily from woe to woe tell ore 

The sad account of fore-bemoned mone, 

Which I new pay as if not payd before. 40 

But if the while I thinke on thee, deare friend, 

All losses are restord, and sorrowes end. 

LXXIII 

That time of yeeare thou maist in me behold 

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, doe hange 

Upon those boughes which shake against the could 45 

Bare ruin'd quirs, where late the sweet birds sang. 

In me thou seest the twilight of such day 

As after Sunset fadeth in the West, — 

Which by and by blacke night doth take away, 

Deaths second selfe, that seals up all in rest. 50 

In me thou seest the glowing of such fire, 

That on the ashes of his youth doth lye. 

As the death-bed whereon it must expire, 

Consum'd with that which it was nurrisht by. 

This thou percev'st, which makes thy love more strong, 55 
To love that well which thou must leave ere long. 



50 SHAKESPEARE 

CVI 

When in the Chronicle of wasted time 
I see discriptions of the fairest wights, 
And beautie making beautifull old rime, 
In praise of Ladies dead, and lovely Knights ; 60 

Then, in the blazon of sweet beauties best, 
Of hand, of foote, of hp, of eye, of brow, 
I see their antique Pen would have exprest 
Even such a beauty as you maister now. 
So all their praises are but prophesies 65 

Of this our time, all you prefiguring ; 
And, for they look'd but with devining eyes. 
They had not skill enough your worth to sing : 
For we, which now behold these present days, 
Have eyes to wonder, but lack toungs to praise. 70 



CHAPTER V 
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY 

I. THE PERIOD OF PURITAN INFLUENCE 

By the " Elizabethan age " literary historians commonly understand 
not only the years which comprise the reign of Elizabeth, but also those 
of the first two Stuarts and even of the Commonwealth, that is, down 
to 1660. We are undoubtedly justified in conceiving the boundaries of 
the era as extending beyond the good queen's death, in 1603, for at that 
time much of Shakespeare's best work was as yet unaccomplished, 
while Ben Jonson, who must certainly be classed as an Elizabethan, 
had been writing only a very few years. But the later, or post-Eliza- 
bethan, literature soon showed signs of decadence ; the spirit which had 
animated it was failing; and by the time that the young Milton had 
written his first lyrics the old order had well-nigh passed. 

The age now beginning differed from its predecessor in many 
respects, but chiefly in that it was marked by a great civil and religious 
conflict. This is the period of the Puritan revolution. It was short 
and its limits cannot be precisely defined ; but literary eras are inde- 
pendent of arbitrary or external bounds. Some Elizabethan poets, for 
instance, lived on and wrote up to the time of the Restoration ; and the 
greatest of Puritans, Milton and Bunyan, produced their most character- 
istic work after their " period " had passed away and the excesses of the 
profligate Restoration had begun. There is no doubt, however, that 
from about 1625 to 1660, England, as a whole, was stirred by emotions 
and inspired by ideals far different from those which had held sway 
during the years of the Tudor Elizabeth. Characteristic tendencies — 
not to be confounded with those that followed or preceded — marked 
this period of Puritan influence. 

In many ways the Puritan movement affected the life of the nation. 
" England," says Green, " became the people of a book, and that book 
was the Bible." For fifty years the religious side of life had been gain- 
ing in prominence. Theological discussion was rife. Men were de- 
veloping, spiritually and intellectually. Demands for larger freedom, 
civil and religious, grew more vehement year by year. These demands 
James I and his son Charles I ignored or scornfully refused to grant. 

51 



52 THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY 

Charles went so far in his insistence upon his " divine right " to absolute 
power that in 1642 the great middle class of England found itself in 
arms against him. Since in the conflict that ensued the established 
church remained loyal to the king, the breach between churchman and 
Puritan was widened. The period was characterized by bitter religious 
and political controversy, by persecution, turbulence, and civil war. In 
1649 Charles was overthrown, a Protectorate was soon established, and 
the triumph of Puritanism was complete. 

This condition of affairs found expression in literature. Religious 
verse, theological discussions, fierce ptjlitical treatises, now largely 
took the place of the rich, romantic poetry of the former age. The 
purely literary impulse was checked. With the outbreak of the Civil 
War the theatres were closed and " the splendid drama of the Eliza- 
bethans languished and died." Doubtless something of the Elizabethan 
spirit lingered ; not a few lyrical strains were yet heard, less natural, 
perhaps, and less spontaneous than before, but still of a distinctive 
grace and beauty ; not a few of the so-called metaphysical and religious 
poets of the newer school echoed the music of the sixteenth century ; 
but, as a whole, the poetry of this period is characterized by insincerity, 
artificiality, and extravagance, and would rank very low in the esteem 
of posterity were it not for the splendid genius of john milton. 

JOHN MILTON (1608-1674) 

Milton embodies in its most artistic literary form the spirit of Puri- 
tanism at its best. He is justly regarded not only as the poet, par excel- 
lence, of his time, but as one of the great poets of all time. In scholarly 
attainment, in critical insight, in his love of nature and truth, in his 
purity and earnestness of purpose, in his mastery of the grand style 
suitable to reflective and epic expression, he is the equal, if not the su- 
perior, of any other English poet. He is lacking in dramatic power and 
in humor, and hence, to a certain extent, in the human element. He 
is therefore not a Shakespeare. In narrative portrayal of actual life he 
is not even a Chaucer ; yet he is fittingly regarded as the most excellent 
of English non-dramatic poets. His later poems, more than any others 
in the language, may be described by the adjective " sublime " ; while his 
early lyrics have the grace, lightness, and exquisite fitness of phrase that 
mark the genius in verse, the artificer in words. Milton was, moreover, 
a man of broad public activity, and in this respect alone he would have 
left a deep impress upon the history of his time. So strong is his per- 
sonality that through his works we know him almost as well as we 
know our contemporaries. His life falls easily into four very distinct 
divisions. 



JOHN MILTON 53 

1608-1632. — Milton was born in London in December, 1608. His 
father was by occupation a scrivener, one whose business it is to draw 
up contracts and other legal documents ; and was, moreover, a man of 
culture and of no little musical ability. The future poet's early educa- 
tion was received partly at St. Paul's school near his home, and partly 
under the guidance of most competent private tutors. At the age of 
sixteen he entered Christ's College, Cambridge ; and for seven years he 
carried on his academic training with the earnest purpose which appeared 
in all his enterprises, taking in due order both bachelor's and master's 
degree. His poetic output during these college years was principally in 
Latin, the most important of his English verse being the Hymti on the 
Nativity, 1629; the Lines on Shakespeare, 1630; and the Sonnet on 
arriving at the Age of Twenty-three, December, 1631. 

1632-1640. — Milton's father had meanwhile given up business and 
retired with comfortable means of subsistence to a country home in 
Horton, a small village about twenty miles from London. To this 
home, by the generous consent of his father, the young college graduate 
came, with the avowed purpose of supplementing his education with 
what he calls "a period of absolute leisure'' — in reahty a rigorous 
course in Greek and Latin literature, and a cultivation of the poetic tal- 
ents with which he felt himself to be endowed. To us the residence at 
Horton is particularly memorable, since it was during these quiet years 
that Milton wrote the finest of his minor poems, among them V Allegro, 
II Penseroso, Contus, and Lycidas. After nearly six years thus spent at 
Horton, the poet made a journey to Italy, where he passed about a year 
and a half in study and travel. Though he wrote little during this time, 
he had already begun to plan for some great work such as was realized 
in the epics of his old age. He was preparing to extend his travels into 
Greece, when rumors of approaching civil strife caused him in 1639 to 
return home. About this time, possibly as a means of self-support, he 
opened a boys' school in London. 

1640-1660. — This period we may dismiss briefly, since Milton's 
poetic production during these years consists of but a few sonnets, some" 
two hundred lines in all. Of sonnets he wrote altogether twenty-three : 
two in Cambridge, five during his journey in Italy (in Italian), and sixteen 
of varying degrees of excellence between 1642 and 1658. His literary 
work during these years consisted almost entirely of prose pamphlets on 
social and political questions of the day. Among the more notable of 
these were the Areopagitica, — a plea for the freedom of the press, — the 
Tractate on Education, the Tenure of Kings and Magistrates, and his 
Defense for the English People. Much of his work is violent and bitter 
in tone, and much, on the other hand, is sincerely and nobly eloquent. 
In 1643, at the age of thirty-five, he had married a certain Mary Powell 



54 THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY 

— a union which proved unhappy. In 1649 he was made Latin secre- 
tary to Cromwell, a position which he held for three years, when through 
overwork he became totally blind. However, he continued in his office 
until after the death of Cromwell in 1658, although his part in Common- 
wealth affairs during these later years was probably not an important 
one. 

1660-1674. — On the Restoration, in 1660, Milton was first in hiding, 
and then for a time in custody ; but, despite his connection with the poli- 
tics of the Commonwealth, he was included in the general pardon issued 
by King Charles II. The blind poet, now fifty-two years of age, turned 
his back on the new world that came in with the Restoration, and calmly 
set himself to work toward the completion of an epic, the Paradise Lost. 
This was finished in 1665 and published two years later. Paradise Lost, 
" whose style," as Stopford Brooke remarks, " is the greatest in the 
whole range of English poetry," could not have been produced in the 
early Horton period, nor have been finished in the stormy years that 
followed. It is the suitable outgrowth of the period of calm upon which 
its writer had now entered. Following the Paradise Lost, in 1671, Par- 
adise Regained and Satnson Agonistes were published. Three years 
later, in 1674, the poet died, "old and blind and fallen on evil days," 
yet " with his Titanic proportions and independent loneliness, the most 
impressive figure in English literature." 

Great as are Milton's later poems, the admiration and the food of 
those who love strong poetic sustenance, they are not, as Mark Pattison 
puts it, poems which we should be likely to choose " for our favorite 
closet companions." The epics are too vast, too majestic, perhaps too 
difficult, to offer a very strong attraction to the general reader. The 
minor poems, however, the work of his earlier years, constitute a group 
which no one need neglect, nor can one afford to neglect them ; and it 
is to four of these poems, together with a few of the sonnets, that we 
shall now direct our attention. 



L'ALLEGRO 

Hence, loathed Melancholy, 

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born 
In Stygian cave forlorn, 

'Mongst horrid shapes and shrieks and sights unholy 1 
Find out som uncouth cell, 5 

Wher brooding Darknes spreads his jealous wings, 
And the night-raven sings ; 



r ALLEGRO 55 

There, under ebon shades and low-brow'd rocks, 
As ragged as thy locks, 

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. lo 

But com, thou Goddess fair and free, 
In Heav'n ycleap'd Euphrosyne, 
And by men, heart-easing Mirth, 
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, 

With two sister Graces more 15 

To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore : 
Or whether (as som sager sing) 
The frolick wind that breathes the spring, 
Zephir, with Aurora playing, 

As he met her once a Maying, 20 

There, on beds of Violets blew 
And fresh-blown roses washt in dew, 
Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair, 
So bucksom, blith, and debonair. 

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee 25 

Jest and youthful Jollity, 
Quips and Cranks and wanton Wiles, 
Nods and Becks and wreathed Smiles, 
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, 

And love to live in dimple sleek ; 30 

Sport that wrincled Care derides, 
And Laughter holding both his sides. 
Com, and trip it, as ye go, 
On the light fantastick toe ; 

And in thy right hand lead with thee 35 

The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty ; 
And, if I give thee honour due, 
Mirth, admit me of thy crue, 
To live with her, and live with thee, 

In unreproved pleasures free ; 40 

To hear the lark begin his flight. 
And, singing, startle the dull Night, 
From his watch-towre in the skies. 
Till the dappled Dawn doth rise ; 
Then to com, in spight of sorrow, 45 



56 MILTON 

And at my window bid good morrow, 

Through the sweetbriar, or the vine, 

Or the twisted eglantine ; 

While the cock, with lively din, 

Scatters the rear of Darknes thin, 50 

And to the stack, or the barn-dore. 

Stoutly struts his dames before ; 

Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn 

Chearly rouse the slumbring Morn, 

From the side of som hoar hill, 55 

Through the high wood echoing shrill; 

Som time walking, not unseen, 

By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 

Right against the eastern gate 

Wher the great Sun begins his state, 60 

Rob'd in flames and amber light. 

The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 

While the plowman, neer at hand. 

Whistles o're the furrow'd land. 

And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 65 

And the mower whets his sithe, 

And every shepherd tells his tale 

Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 

Whilst the lantskip round it measures, 70 

Russet lawns, and fallows gray. 

Where the nibling flocks do stray ; 

Mountains, on whose barren brest 

The labouring clouds do often rest ; 

Meadows trim with daisies pide ; 75 

Shallow brooks and rivers wide ; 

Towers and battlements it sees 

Boosom'd high in tufted trees, 

Wher perhaps som beauty lies. 

The cynosure of neighbouring eyes. So 

Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes 

From betwixt two aged okes. 

Where Corydon and Thyrsis met 



n ALLEGRO 57 

Are at their savory dinner set 

Of hearbs and other country messes, 85 

Which the neat-handed PhilHs dresses ; 

And then in haste her bowre she leaves, 

With Thestyhs to bind the sheaves ; 

Or, if the earUer season lead, 

To the tann'd haycock in the mead. 90 

Som times, with secure dehght, 

The upland hamlets will invite, 

When the merry bells ring round, 

And the jocond rebecks sound 

To many a youth and many a maid 95 

Dancing in the chequer'd shade ; 

And young and old com forth to play 

On a sunshine holyday. 

Till the livelong daylight fail : 

Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 100 

With stories told of many a feat, 

How fairy Mab the junkets eat. 

She was pincht and pull'd, she sed ; 

And he, by friar's lanthorn led, 

Tells how the drudging goblin swet 105 

To ern his cream-bowle duly set, 

When in one night, ere gUmps of morn, 

His shadowy flale hath thresh'd the corn 

That ten day-labourers could not end ; 

Then lies him down, the lubbar fend, no 

And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length, 

Basks at the fire his hairy strength. 

And crop-full out of dores he flings, 

Ere the first cock his mattin rings. 

Thus don the tales, to bed they creep, 115 

By whispering winds soon luU'd asleep. 

Towred cities please us then. 

And the busie humm of men. 

Where throngs of knights and barons bold. 

In weeds of Peace, high triumphs hold, 129 

With store of ladies, whose bright eies 



58 MILTON 

Rain influence, and judge the prise 

Of wit or arms, wiiile both contend 

To win her grace whom all commend. 

There let Hymen oft appear 125 

In saffron robe, with taper clear, 

And Pomp, and Feast, and Revelry, 

With Mask and antique Pageantry ; 

Such sights as youthful poets dream 

On summer eeves by haunted stream. 130 

Then to the well-trod stage anon, 

If Jonson's learned sock be on. 

Or sweetest Shakespear, Fancie's childe, 

Warble his native wood-notes wilde. 

And ever, against eating cares, 135 

Lap me in soft Lydian aires, 

Married to immortal verse. 

Such as the meeting soul may pierce, 

In notes with many a winding bout 

Of lincked sweetnes long drawn out, 140 

With wanton heed and giddy cunning. 

The melting voice thro' mazes running, 

Untwisting all the chains that ty 

The hidden soul of harmony ; 

That Orpheus' self may heave his head 145 

From golden slumber on a bed 

Of heapt Elysian flowres, and hear 

Such streins as would have won the ear 

Of Pluto to have quite set free 

His half-regain'd Eurydice. 150 

These delights if thou canst give. 

Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 

IL PENSEROSO 

Hence, vain deluding Joyes, 

The brood of Folly without father bred ! 

How little you bested. 

Or fill the fix^d mind with all your toyes ! 



IL PENSEROSO 59 

Dwell in som idle brain, 5 

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, 

As thick and numberless 

As the gay motes that people the sun beams. 

Or likest hovering dreams, 

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 10 

But, hail ! thou Goddess sage and holy ! 

Hail, divinest Melancholy ! 

Whose saintly visage is too bright 

To hit the sense of human sight, 

And therefore, to our weaker view, 15 

O'relaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue ; 

Black, but such as in esteem 

Prince Memnon's sister might beseem. 

Or that starr'd Ethiope queen that strove 

To set her beautie's praise above 20 

The Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended. 

Yet thou art higher far descended ; 

Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore 

To solitary Saturn bore ; 

His daughter she (in Saturn's raign 25 

Such mixture was not held a stain). 

Oft in glimmering bowres and glades 

He met her, and in secret shades 

Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 

While yet there was no fear of Jove. 30 

Com, pensive Nun, devout and pure, 

Sober, stedfast, and demure, 

All in a robe of darkest grain, 

Flowing with majestick train. 

And sable stole of Cipres lawn 35 

Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 

Com ; but keep thy wonted state. 

With eev'n step, and musing gate. 

And looks commercing with the skies, 

Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 40 

There, held in holy passion still. 

Forget thy self to marble, till 



6o MILTON 

With a sad leaden downward cast 

Thou fix them on the earth as fast. 

And joyn with thee cahii Peace and Quiet, 45 

Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet. 

And hears the Muses in a ring 

Ay round about Jove's altar sing ; 

And adde to these retired Leasure, 

That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ; 50 

But, first and chiefest, with thee bring 

Him that yon soars on golden wing, 

Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, 

The cherub Contemplation ; 

And the mute Silence hist along, 55 

'Less Philomel will deign a song. 

In her sweetest, saddest plight, 

Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, 

While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke 

Gently o're th' accustom'd oka. 60 

Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly. 

Most musical, most melancholy ! 

Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among 

I woo to hear thy even-song ; 

And, missing thee, I walk unseen 65 

On the dry smooth-shaven green, 

To behold the wandring moon, 

Riding neer her highest noon, 

Like one that had bin led astray 

Through the Heav'n's wide pathles way, 70 

And oft, as if her head she bow'd. 

Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 

Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 

I hear the far-off curfeu sound. 

Over som wide-water'd shoar, 75 

Swinging slow with sullen roar ; 

Or, if the ayr will not permit, 

Som still removed place will fit, 

Where glowing embers through the room 

Teach Light to counterfeit a gloom, 80 



IL PENSEROSO 6 1 

Far from all resort of mirth, 

Save the cricket on the hearth, 

Or the belman's drousie charm 

To bless the dores from nightly harm. 

Or let my lamp, at midnight hour, 85 

Be seen in some high lonely towr, 

Where I may oft out-watch the Bear, 

With thrice great Hermes, or unsphear 

The spirit of Plato, to unfold 

What worlds or what vast regions hold 90 

The immortal mind that hath forsook 

Her mansion in this fleshly nook ; 

And of those daemons that are found 

In fire, air, flood, or under ground, 

Whose power hath a true consent 95 

With planet or with element. 

Som time let gorgeous Tragedy 

In scepter'd pall com sweeping by, 

Presenting Thebs, or Pelops' line, 

Or the tale of Troy divine, 100 

Or what (though rare) of later age 

Ennobled hath the buskind stage. 

But, O sad Virgin ! that thy power 

Might raise Musasus from his bower, 

Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 105 

Such notes as, warbled to the string. 

Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek. 

And made Hell grant what Love did seek ; 

Or call up him that left half told 

The story of Cambuscan bold, no 

Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 

And who had Canace to wife, 

That own'd the vertuous ring and glass, 

And of the wondrous hors of brass, 

On which the Tartar king did ride ; 115 

And if ought els great bards beside 

In sage and solemn tunes have sung. 

Of turneys and of trophies hung. 



6"2 MILTON 

Of forests, and inchantments drear, 

Where more is meant than meets the ear. 120 

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, 

Till civil-suited Morn appeer, 

Not trickt and frounc't, as she was wont 

With the Attick boy to hunt. 

But cherchef't in a comely cloud, 125 

While rocking winds are piping loud, 

Or usher'd with a shower still. 

When the gust hath blown his fill, 

Ending on the russling leaves, 

With minute drops from off the eaves. 130 

And, when the sun begins to fling 

His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring 

To arched walks of twilight groves, 

And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, 

Of pine, or monumental oake, 135 

Where the rude ax with heaved stroke 

Was never heard the nymphs to daunt. 

Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt. 

There, in close covert, by som brook. 

Where no profaner eye may look, 140 

Hide me from Day's garish eie. 

While the bee with honied thie. 

That at her flowry work doth sing. 

And the waters murmuring. 

With such consort as they keep, 145 

Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep ; 

And let som strange mysterious dream 

Wave at his wings, in airy stream 

Of lively portrature display'd. 

Softly on my eyelids laid ; 15° 

And, as I wake, sweet musick breathe 

Above, about, or underneath, 

Sent by som Spirit to mortals good, 

Or th' unseen Genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail iS5 

To walk the studious cloyster's pale. 



IL PENSEROSO 63 

And love the high embowed roof, 

With antick pillars massy proof, 

And storied windows richly dight, 

Casting a dimm religious light. 160 

There let the pealing organ blow 

To the full voic'd quire below, 

In service high and anthems cleer. 

As may with sweetnes, through mine ear, 

Dissolve me into extasies, 165 

And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes. 

And may at last my weary age 

Find out the peacefull hermitage. 

The hairy gown and mossy cell, 

Where I may sit and rightly spell 170 

Of every star that Heav'n doth shew, 

And every herb that sips the dew ; 

Till old Experience do attain 

To somthing like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures. Melancholy, give, 175 

And I with thee will choose to live. 



LYCIDAS 

In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drown'd in 
his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637 ; and by occasion foretells the 
ruine of our corrupted Clergie, then in their height. 

Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more. 

Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never sear, 

I com to pluck your berries harsh and crude, 

And with forc'd fingers rude 

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 5 

Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear 

Compels me to disturb your season due ; 

For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 

Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 

Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew 10 

Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 



V 



64 MILTON 

He must not flote upon his watry bear 
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, 
Without the meed of som melodious tear. 

Begin, then. Sisters of the Sacred Well 15 

That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, 
Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string. 
Hence with denial vain and coy excuse : 
So may som gentle Muse 

With lucky words favour my destin'd urn, 20 

And, as he passes, turn, 
And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd ! 

For we were nurst upon the self-same hill, 
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill ; 
Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd 25 

Under the opening eyelids of the Morn, 
We drove a field, and both together heard 
What time the gray-fly winds her su^ry horn, 
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, 
Oft till the star that rose at ev'ning bright 30 

Towards Heav'n's descent had slop'd his westering wheel. 
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, 
Temper'd to the oaten flute, 
Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel 
From the glad sound would not be absent long ; 35 

And old Damaetas lov'd to hear our song. 

But, O the heavy change, now thou art gon. 
Now thou art gon, and never must return ! 
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves, 
With wilde thyme and the gadding vine o'regrown, 40 

And all their echoes mourn. 
The willows, and the hazel copses green, 
Shall now no more be seen 
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft layes. 
As killing as the canker to the rose, 45 

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, 
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrop wear 
When first the white thorn blows ; 
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 



LYCIDAS 65 

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 50 
Clos'd o're the head of your lov'd Lycidas? 
For neither were ye playing on the steep 
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, ly, 
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream. 55 

Ay me ! I fondly dream 

" Had ye bin there ". . . for what could that have don? 
What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore. 
The Muse her self, for her inchanting son. 
Whom universal Nature did lament, 60 

When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, 
His goary visage down the stream was sent, 
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? 

Alas ! what boots it with uncessant care 
To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade, 65 

And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ? 
Were it not better don, as others use. 
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 
Or with the tangles of Nesera's hair? 

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 70 

(That last infirmity of noble mind) 
To scorn delights and live laborious dayes ; 
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
And think to burst out into sudden blaze. 
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears, 75 

And sUts the thin-spun life. " But not the praise," 
Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears : 
"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, 
Nor in the glistering foil 

Set off to th' world, nor in broad Rumour lies, 80 

But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes 
And perfet witnes of all-judging Jove ; 
As he pronounces lastly on each deed. 
Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed." 

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood, 85 

Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds, 
That strain I heard was of a higher mood : 



(^ MILTON 

But now my oat proceeds, 

And listens to the Herald of the Sea, 

That came in Neptune's plea. 90 

He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the fellon winds. 

What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain ? 

And question'd every gust of rugged wings 

That blows from off each beaked promontory : 

They knew not of his story ; 95 

And sage Hippotades their answer brings, 

That not a blast was from his dungeon stray' d : 

The air was calm, and on the level brine 

Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. 

It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 100 

Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark. 

That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 

Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, 
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge. 
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 105 

Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. 
"Ah ! who hath reft," quoth he, " my dearest pledge? " 
Last came, and last did go. 
The pilot of the Galilean lake ; 

Two massy keyes he bore of metals twain no 

(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). 
He shook his miter'd locks, and stern bespake : — 
" How well could I have spar'd for thee, young Swain, 
Anow of such, as for their bellies' sake, 
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold ! 115 

Of other care they little reck'ning make 
Then how to scramble at the shearers' feast. 
And shove away the worthy bidden guest. 
Blind mouthes ! that scarce themselves know how to hold 
A sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the least 120 

That to the faithfuU herdsman's art belongs ! 
What recks it them? What need they? they are sped ; 
And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs 
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw ; 
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 125 



LYCIDAS 67 

But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, 

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ; 

Besides what the grim woolf with privy paw 

Daily devours apace, and nothing sed ; 

But that two-handed engine at the door 13° 

Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." 

Return, Alph^us ; the dread voice is past 
That shrunk thy streams ; return, Sicilian Muse, 
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
Their bels and flourets of a thousand hues. 135 

Ye valleys low, where the milde whispers use 
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, 
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks, 
Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes, 
That on the green terf suck the honied showres, 140 

And purple all the ground with vernal fiowres. 
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 
The tufted crow-toe, and pale gessamine, 
The white pink, and the pansie freakt with jeat, 
The glowing violet, '45 

The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine, 
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, 
And every flower that sad embroidery wears ; 
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, 

And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, 15° 

To strew the laureat herse where Lycid lies. 
For so, to interpose a little ease, 
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise, 
Ay me ! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 
Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurl'd ; 155 

Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 
Where thou, perhaps, under the whelming tide 
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ; 
Or whether thou, to our moist vows deny'd, 
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 160 

Where the great Vision of the guarded mount 
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold : 
Look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth ; 
And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth. 



68 MIL TON 

Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more, 165 

For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, 
Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar : 
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, 
And yet anon repairs his drooping head, 
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 170 

Flames in the forehead of the morning sky : 
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high. 
Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves. 
Where, other groves and other streams along. 
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 175 

And hears the unexpressive nuptial song. 
In the blest kingdoms meek of Joy and Love. 
There entertain him all the Saints above. 
In solemn troops, and sweet societies. 
That sing, and singing in their glory move, iSo 

And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; 
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore. 
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 185 

Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' okes and rills. 
While the still Morn went out with sandals grey ; 
He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, 
With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay : 
And now the sun had stretch 'd out all the hills, 190 

And now was dropt into the western bay. 
At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blew : 
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. 



COMUS . 69 



COMUS 

A MASK PRESENTED AT LUDLOW CASTLE, 1 634, BEFORE JOHN, 
EARL OF BRIDGEWATER, THEN PRESIDENT OF WALES 

THE PERSONS 

The Attendant Spirit, afterwards in the habit of Thyrsis. 

CoMUS, with his Crew. 

The Lady. 

First Brother. 

Second Brother. 

Sabrina, the Nymph. 

The chief persons which presented zvere, — 

The Lord Bracly; 

Mr. Thomas Egerton, his brother; 

The Lady Alice Egerton. 

The first Scene discovers a wilde wood. 

The Attendant Spirit descends or enters. 

Spirit. Before the starry threshold of Jove's court 
My mansion is, where those immortal shapes 
Of bright aereal spirits live insphear'd 
In regions milde of calm and serene air, 
Above the smoak and stirr of this dim spot 
Which men call Earth, and, with low-thoughted care, 
Confin'd and pester'd in this pinfold here. 
Strive to keep up a frail and feaverish being, 
UnmindfuU of the crown that Vertue gives. 
After this mortal change, to her true servants 
Amongst the enthron'd gods on sainted seats. 
Yet som there be that by due steps aspire 
To lay their just hands on that golden key 
That opes the palace of eternity. 
To such my errand is ; and, but for such, 
I would not soil these pure ambrosial weeds 
With the rank vapours of this sin-worn mould. 



yo MILTON 

But to my task. Neptune, besides the sway 
Of every salt flood and each ebbing stream, 
Took in by lot, 'tvvixt high and neather Jove, 20 

Imperial rule of all the sea-girt iles 
That, like to rich and various gemms, inlay 
The unadorned boosom of the deep ; 
Which he, to grace his tributary gods, 
By course commits to several government, 25 

And gives them leave to wear their saphire crowns 
And wield their little tridents. But this lie, 
The greatest and the best of all the main. 
He quarters to his blu-hair'd deities ; 

And all this tract that fronts the falling sun 30 

A noble Peer of mickle trust and power 
Has in his charge, with temper'd awe to guide 
An old and haughty nation, proud in arms : 
Where his fair off-spring, nurs't in princely lore, 
Are coming to attend their father's state, 35 

And new-entrusted scepter. But their way 
Lies through the perplex't paths of this drear wood. 
The nodding horror of those shady brows 
Threats the forlorn and wandring passinger ; 
And here their tender age might suffer peril, 40 

But that, by quick command from soveran Jove, 
I was despatcht for their defence and guard ! 
And listen why ; for I will tell you now 
What never yet was heard in tale or song, 
From old or modern bard, in hall or bowr. 45 

Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape 
Crush't the sweet poison of mis-used wine, 
After the Tuscan mariners transform'd, 
Coasting the Tyrrhene shore, as the winds listed, 
On Circe's iland fell. (Who knows not Circe, 50 

The daughter of the Sun, whose charmed cup 
Whoever tasted lost his upright shape, 
And downward fell into a groveling swine?) 
This Nymph, that gaz'd upon his clustring locks, 
With ivy berries wreath'd, and his blithe youth, 55 



COM us 71 

Had by him, ere he parted thence, a son 

Much hke his father, but his mother more, 

Whom therefore she brought up, and Comus nam'd : 

Who, ripe and frolick of his full-grown age, 

Roving the Celtick and Iberian fields, 60 

At last betakes him to this ominous wood, 

And, in thick shelter of black shades imbower'd, 

Excells his mother at her mighty art ; 

Offring to every weary traveller 

His orient liquor in a crystal glass, 65 

To quench the drouth of Phoebus ; which as they taste 

(For most do taste through fond intemperate thirst). 

Soon as the potion works, their human count 'nance, 

Th' express resemblance of the gods, is chang'd 

Into som brutish form of woolf or bear, 70 

Or ounce or tiger, hog, or bearded goat, 

All other parts remaining as they were. 

And they, so perfect is their misery. 

Not once perceive their foul disfigurement, 

But boast themselves more comely than before, 75 

And all their friends and native home forget, 

To roule with pleasure in a sensual stie. 

Therefore, when any favor'd of high Jove 

Chances to pass through this adventrous glade, 

Swift as the sparkle of a glancing star 80 

I shoot from heav'n, to give him safe convoy, 

As now I do. But first I must put off 

These my skie robes, spun out of Iris' wooff, 

And take the weeds and likenes of a swain 

That to the service of this house belongs, 85 

Who, with his soft pipe and smooth-dittied song. 

Well knows to still the wilde winds when they roar, 

And hush the waving woods ; nor of less faith, 

And in this office of his mountain watch 

Likeliest, and nearest to the present ayd 90 

Of this occasion. But I hear the tread 

Of hatefull steps ; I must be viewles now. 



72 MILTON 

CoMUS enters, with a charming-rod in one hand, his glass in the 
other ; 7vith him a rout of monsters, headed like sundry sorts 
of wilde beasts, but othenvise like men and women, their apparel 
glistering. They come in making a riotous and unruly noise, 
with torches in their hands. 

Comus. The star that bids the shepherd fold 
Now the top of heav'ii doth hold ; 

And the gilded car of day 95 

His glowing axle doth allay 
In the steep Atlantick stream : 
And the slope sun his upward beam 
Shoots against the dusky pole, 

Pacing toward the other gole 100 

Of his chamber in the east. 
Meanwhile, welcom joy and feast, 
Midnight shout and revelry, 
Tipsie dance and jollity. 

Braid your locks with rosie twine, 105 

Dropping odors, dropping wine. 
Rigor now is gon to bed ; 
And Advice with scrupulous head. 
Strict Age, and sowre Severity, 

With their grave saws, in slumber lie. no 

We, that are of purer fire, 
Imitate the starry quire, 
Who, in their nightly watchfull sphears, 
Lead in swift round the months and years. 
The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove, 115 

Now to the moon in wavering morrice move ; 
And on the tawny sands and shelves 
Trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves. 
By dimpled brook and fountain-brim. 

The wood-nymphs, deckt with daisies trim, 120 

Their merry wakes and pastimes keep : 
What hath night to do with sleep? 
Night hath better sweets to prove ; 
Venus now wakes, and wak'ns Love. 



COM us 73 

Com, let us our rights begin ; 125 

'Tis onely day-light that makes sin, 

Which these dun shades will ne're report. 

Hail, goddess of nocturnal sport. 

Dark-vailed Cotytto, t' whom the secret flara.e 

Of raid-night torches burns ! mysterious dame, 130 

That ne're art call'd but when the dragon woom 

Of Stygian darkness spets her thickest gloom. 

And makes one blot of all the air ! 

Stay thy cloudy ebon chair, 

Wherein thou rid'st with Hecat', and befriend 135 

Us thy vow'd priests, till utmost end 

Of all thy dues be done, and none left out 

Ere the blabbing eastern scout. 

The nice Morn on the Indian steep, 

From her cabin'd loop-hole peep, 140 

And to the tell-tale Sun discry 

Our conceal'd solemnity. 

Com, knit hands, and beat the ground 

In a light fantastick round. 

The Measure 

Break off, break off! I feel the different pace 145 

Of som chast footing near about this ground. 

Run to your shrouds within these brakes and trees ; 

Our number may affright. Some virgin sure 

(For so I can distinguish by mine art) 

Benighted in these woods ! Now to my charms, 150 

And to my wily trains : I shall ere long 

Be well stock't with as fair a herd as graz'd 

About my mother Circe. Thus I hurl 

My dazling spells into the spungy ayr. 

Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion, 155 

And give it false presentments, lest the place 

And my quaint habits breed astonishment, 

And put the damsel to suspicious flight; 

Which must not be, for that's against my course. 



74 MILTON 

I, under fair pretence of friendly ends, i6o 

And well-plac't words of glozing courtesie, 

Baited with reasons not unplausible, 

Wind me into the easie-hearted man, 

And hug him into snares. When once her eye 

Hath met the vertue of this magick dust 165 

I shall appear som harmles villager. 

Whom thrift keeps up about his country gear. 

But here she comes ; I fairly step aside. 

And hearken, if I may her busines hear. 



The Lady entejs. 

Lady. This way the noise was, if mine ear be true, 170 
My best guide now. Methought it was the sound 
Of riot and ill-manag'd merriment. 
Such as the jocund flute or gamesom pipe 
Stirs up among the loose unletter'd hinds. 
When, for their teeming flocks and granges full, 175 

In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan, 
And thank the gods amiss. I should be loath 
To meet the rudeness and swill'd insolence 
Of such late wassailers ; yet, oh ! where els 
Shall I inform my unacquainted feet iSo 

In the blind mazes of this tangl'd wood? 
My brothers, when they saw me wearied out 
With this long way, resolving here to lodge 
Under the spreading favour of these pines. 
Stepped, as they se'd, to the next thicket-side 185 

To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit 
As the kind hospitable woods provide. 
They left me then when the gray-hooded Eev'n, 
Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed. 

Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' wain. 190 

But where they are, and why they came not back. 
Is now the labour of my thoughts. 'Tis likeliest 
They had ingag'd their wandring steps too far ; 



COM us 75 

And envious darknes, ere they could return, 

Had stole them from me. Els, O theevish Night, 195 

Why shouldst thou, but for som fellonious end, 

In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars 

That Nature hung in heav'n, and fiU'd their lamps 

With everlasting oil, to give due light 

To the misled and lonely traveller? 200 

This is the place, as well as I may guess, 

Whence eev'n now the tumult of loud mirth 

Was rife, and perfet in my list'ning ear ; 

Yet nought but single darknes do I find. 

What might this be? A thousand fantasies 205 

Begin to throng into my memory, 

Of calUng shapes, and beckning shadows dire, 

And airy tongues that syllable men's names 

On sands and shoars and desert wildernesses. 

These thoughts may startle well, but not astound 210 

The vertuous mind, that ever walks attended 

By a strong siding champion. Conscience. 

O, welcom, pure-ey'd Faith, white-handed Hope, 

Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings, 

And thou unblemish't form of Chastity ! 215 

I see ye visibly, and now believe 

That He, the Supreme Good, t' whom all things ill 

Are but as slavish officers of vengeance, 

Would send a glistring guardian, if need were, 

To keep my life and honour unassail'd. ... 220 

Was I deceiv'd, or did a sable cloud 

Turn forth her silver lining on the night? 

I did not err : there does a sable cloud 

Turn forth her silver lining on the night, 

And casts a gleam over this tufted grove. 225 

I cannot hallow to my brothers, but 

Such noise as I can make to be heard farthest 

He venter; for my new-enliv'n'd spirits 

Prompt me, and they perhaps are not far off. 



k 



76 MIL TON 

Song 

Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen 230 

Within thy airy shell 
By slow Meander's margent green, 
And in the violet-imbroider'd vale 

Where the love-lorn nightingale 
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well : 235 

Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair 
That hkest thy Narcissus are ? 

O, if thou have 
Hid them in som flowry cave. 

Tell me but where, 240 

Sweet Queen of Parly, Daughter of the Sphear ! 
So mai'st thou be translated to the skies, 
And give resounding grace to all Heav'n's harmonies ! 

Comtis. Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould 
Breath such divine inchanting ravishment? 245 

Sure something holy lodges in that brest, 
And with these raptures moves the vocal air 
To testifie his hidd'n reside'nce. 
How sweetly did they float upon the wings 
Of silence, through the empty-vaulted night, 250 

At every fall smoothing the raven doune 
Of darknes till it smil'd 1 I have oft heard 
My mother Circe with the Sirens three, 
Amidst the flowery-kirtl'd Naiades, 

Culling their potent hearbs and balefull drugs, 255 

Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul. 
And lap it in Elysium : Scylla wept. 
And chid her barking waves into attention, 
And fell Charybdis murmur'd soft applause. 
Yet they in pleasing slumber lull'd the sense, 260 

And in sweet madnes rob'd it of it self; 
But such a sacred and home-felt delight, 
Such sober certainty of waking bliss, 
I never heard till now. He speak to her, 



coMUS 77 

And she shall be my queen. — Hail, forren wonder ! 265 

Whom certain these rough shades did never breed, 

Unless the goddess that in rural shrine 

Dwell'st here with Pan or Silvan, by blest song 

Forbidding every bleak unkindly fog 

To touch the prosperous growth of this tall wood. 270 

Lady. Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise 
That is addres't to unattending ears. 
Not any boast of skill, but extreme shift 
How to regain my sever'd company, 

Compell'd me to awake the courteous Echo 275 

To give me answer from her mossie couch. 

Comus. What chance, good Lady, hath bereft you thus? 

Lady. Dim darknes and this leavie labyrinth. 

Comus. Could that divide you from neer-ushering guides ? 

Lady. They left me weary on a grassie terf 280 

Comus. By falshood, or discourtesie, or why ? 

Lady. To seek i' th' vally som cool friendly spring. 

Comus. And left your fair side all unguarded, Lady? 

Lady. They were but twain, and purpos'd quick return. 

Comus. Perhaps fore-stalling night prevented them. 285 

Lady. How easie my misfortune is to hit ! 

Comus. Imports their loss, beside the present need? 

Lady. No less than if I should my brothers loose. 

Coinus. Were they of manly prime, or youthful bloom? 

Lady. As smooth as Hebe's their unrazor'd lips. 290 

Comus. Two such I saw, what time the labour'd oxe 
In his loose traces from the furrow came, 
And the swink't hedger at his supper sate. 
I saw them under a green manthng vine. 

That crawls along the side of yon small hill, 295 

Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots ; 
Their port was more than human, as they stood. 
I took it for a faery vision 
Of som gay creatures of the element, 

That in the colours of the rainbow live, 300 

And play i' th' plighted clouds. I was aw-strook, 
And, as I past I worshipt. If those you seek, 



78 MILTON 

It were a journey like the path to Heav'n 
To help you find them. 

Lady. Gentle villager, 

What readiest way would bring me to that place? 305 

Comus. Due west it rises from this shrubby point. 

Lady. To find out that, good shepherd, I suppose, 
In such a scant allowance of star-light. 
Would overtask the best land-pilot's art. 
Without the sure guess of well-practis'd feet. 310 

Comus. I know each lane, and every alley green, 
Dingle, or bushy dell, of this wilde wood. 
And every bosky bourn from side to side, 
My daily walks and ancient neighborhood ; 
And, if your stray attendance be yet lodg'd 315 

Or shroud within these limits, I shall know 
Ere morrow wake, or the low-roosted lark 
From her thatch't pallat rowse. If otherwise, 
I can conduct you, Lady, to a low 

But loyal cottage, where you may be safe 320 

Till further quest. 

Lady. Shepherd, I take thy word, 

And trust thy honest-offer'd courtesie. 
Which oft is sooner found in lowly sheds, 
With smoaky rafters, than in tapstry halls 
And courts of princes, where it first was nam'd, 325 

And yet is most pretended. In a place 
Less warranted than this, or less secure, 
I cannot be, that I should fear to change it. 
Eie me, blest Providence, and square my triall 
To my proportion'd strength ! Shepherd, lead on. ... 330 

The Two Brothers 

Eld. Bro. Unmufile, ye faint stars ; and thou, fair moon, 
That wont'st to love the traveller's benizon. 
Stoop thy pale visage through an amber cloud, 
And disinherit Chaos, that raigns here 
In double night of darknes and of shades ; 335 



coMus 79 

Or, if your influence be quite damm'd up 

With black usurping mists, som gentle taper, 

Though a rush-candle from the wicker hole 

Of som clay habitation, visit us 

With thy long levell'd rule of streaming light, 340 

And thou shall be our star of Arcady, 

Or Tyrian Cynosure. 

Sec. Bro. Or, if our eyes 

Be barr'd that happines, might we but heai 
The folded flocks, pen'd in their watled cotes, 
Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops, 345 

Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock 
Count the night-watches to his feathery dames, 
'Twould be som solace yet, som little chearing, 
In this close dungeon of innumerous bowes. 
But, Oh, that haples virgin, our lost sister ! 350 

Where may she wander now, whither betake her 
From the chill dew, amongst rude burrs and thistles? 
Perhaps som cold bank is her boulster now, 
Or 'gainst the rugged bark of som broad elm 
Leans her unpillow'd head, fraught with sad fears. 355 

What if in wild amazement and affright, 
Or, while we speak, within the direful grasp 
Of savage hunger, or of savage heat ! 

Eld. Bro. Peace, brother : be not over-exquisite 
To cast the fashion of uncertain evils ; 360 

For, grant they be so, while they rest unknown, 
What need a man forestall his date of grief, 
And run to meet what he would most avoid ? 
Or, if they be but false alarms of fear, 
How bitter is such self-delusion ! 365 

I do not think my sister so to seek, 
Or so unprincipl'd in vertue's book. 
And the sweet peace that goodnes boosoms ever, 
As that the single want of light and noise 
(Not being in danger, as I trust she is not) 370 

Could stir the constant mood of her calm thoughts. 
And put them into mis-becoming plight. 



8o MILTON 

Vertue could see to do what Vertue would 

By her own radiant light, though sun and moon 

Were in the flat sea sunk. And Wisdom's self 375 

Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, 

Where, with her best nurse. Contemplation, 

She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings, 

That, in the various bussle of resort. 

Were all to ruffi'd, and somtimes impair'd. 3S0 

He that has light within his own cleer brest 

May sit i' th' center, and enjoy bright day : 

But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts 

Benighted walks under the mid-day sun ; 

Himself is his own dungeon. 

Sec. Bro. 'Tis most true 385 

That musing Meditation most affects 
The pensive secrecy of desert cell. 
Far from the cheerfull haunt of men and herds. 
And sits as safe as in a senat-house ; 

For who would rob a hermit of his weeds, 390 

His few books, or his beads, or maple dish. 
Or do his gray hairs any violence? 
But Beauty, like the fair Hesperian tree 
Laden with blooming gold, had need the guard 
Of dragon-watch with uninchanted eye 395 

To save her blossoms, and defend her fruit. 
From the rash hand of bold Incontinence. 
You may as well spread out the unsun'd heaps 
Of miser's treasure by an out-law's den. 
And tell me it is safe, as bid me hope 400 

Danger will wink on Opportunity, 
And let a single helpless maiden pass 
Uninjur'd in this wilde surrounding waste. 
, Of night or loneliness it recks me not; 
I fear the dred events that dog them both, 405 

Lest som ill-greeting touch attempt the person 
Of our unowned sister. 

Eld. Bro. I do not, brother, 

Inferr as if I thought my sister's state 



COM us 8 1 

Secure without all doubt or controversie ; 

Yet, where an equal poise of hope and fear 410 

Does arbitrate th' event, my nature is 

That I encline to hope rather than fear, 

And gladly banish squint suspicion. 

My sister is not so defenceless left 

As you imagine; she has a hidden strength, 415 

Which you remember not. 

Sec. Bro. What hidden strength, 

Unless the strength of Heav'n, if you mean that? 

Eld. Bro. I mean that too, but yet a hidden strength. 
Which, if Heav'n gave it, may be term'd her own. 
'Tis chastity, my brother, chastity : 420 

She that has that is clad in compleat steel, 
And, like a quiver'd nymph with arrows keen, 
May trace huge forrests, and unharbour'd heaths, 
Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wildes ; 
Where, through the sacred rayes of chastity, 425 

No savage fierce, bandite, or mountaneer. 
Will dare to soyl her virgin purity. 
Yea, there where very desolation dwels. 
By grots and caverns shag'd with horrid shades, 
She may pass on with unblench't majesty, 430 

Be it not don in pride, or in presumption. 
Som say no evil thing that walks by night. 
In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen, 
Blew meager hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost. 
That breaks his magick chains at curfeu time, 435 

No goblin or swart faery of the mine, 
Hath hurtfull power o're true virginity. 
Do ye believe me yet, or shall I call 
Antiquity from the old schools of Greece 
To testifie the arms of chastity? 440 

Hence had the huntress Dian her dred bow, 
Fair silver-shafted queen forever chaste. 
Wherewith she tam'd the brinded lioness 
And spotted mountain-pard, but set at nought 
The frivolous bolt of Cupid ; gods and men 445 



82 MIL TON 

Fear'd her stern frown, and she was queen o' th' woods. 

What was that snaky-headed Gorgon shield 

That wise Minerva wore, unconquer'd virgin, 

Wherewith she freez'd her foes to congeal'd stone, 

But rigid looks of chast austerity, 450 

And noble grace that dash't brute violence 

With sudden adoration and blank aw? 

So dear to Heav'n is saintly chastity 

That, when a soul is found sincerely so, 

A thousand liveried angels lackey her, 455 

Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, 

And in cleer dream and solemn vision 

Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear; 

Till oft convt^rs with heav'nly habitants 

Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape, 460 

The unpolluted temple of the mind. 

And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence, 

Till all be made immortal. But, when lust, 

By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk, 

But most by leud and lavish act of sin, 465 

Lets in defilement to the inward parts. 

The soul grows clotted by contagion, 

Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she quite loose 

The divine property of her first being. 

Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp 470 

Oft seen in charnel-vaults and sepulchers. 

Lingering and sitting by a new-made grave. 

As loath to leave the body that it lov'd, 

And link't itself by carnal sensualty 

To a degenerate and degraded state. 475 

Sec. Bro. How charming is divine Philosophy ! 
Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, 
But musical as is Apollo's lute. 
And a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets. 
Where no crude surfet raigns. 

Eld. Bro. List ! list ! I hear 480 

Soni far-off hallow break the silent air. 

Sec. Bro. Methought so too ; what should it be ? 



COM us 83 

EM. Bro. For certain, 

Either som one, like us, night-founder'd here, 
Or els som neighbour wood-man, or, at worst. 
Some roaving robber calling to his fellows. 485 

Sec. Bro. Heav'n help my sister ! Agen, agen, and neer ! 
Best draw, and stand upon our guard. 

Eld. Bro. He hallow : 

If he be friendly, he comes well : if not. 
Defence is a good cause, and Heav'n be for us ! 

The AiTENDANT SPIRIT, habited like a shepherd 

That hallow I should know. What are you ? speak. 490 

Com not too neer ; you fall on iron stakes els. 

Spir. What voice is that? my young lord? speak agen. 

Sec. Bro. O brother, 'tis my father's Shepherd, sure. 

Eld. Bro. Thyrsis ! whose artful strains have oft delaid 
The hudling brook to hear his madrigal, 495 

And sweeten'd every musk-rose of the dale. 
How cam'st thou here, good swain? Hath any ram 
Slipt from the fold, or young kid lost his dam, 
Or straggling weather the pen't flock forsook? 
How could'st thou find this dark sequester'd nook? 500 

Spir. O my lov'd master's heir, and his next joy, 
I came not here on such a trivial toy 
As a stray'd ewe, or to pursue the stealth 
Of pilfering woolf; not all the fleecy wealth 

That doth enrich these downs is worth a thought 505 

To this my errand, and the care it brought. 
But, oh ! my virgin Lady, where is she ? 
How chance she is not in your company? 

Eld. Bro. To tell thee sadly, Shepherd, without blame 
Or our neglect, we lost her as we came. 510 

Spir. Ay me unhappy ! then my fears are true. 

Eld. Bro. What fears, good Thyrsis? Prethee briefly shew. 

Spir. He tell ye. Tis' not vain or fabulous 
(Though so esteem'd by shallow ignorance) 
What the sage poets, taught by th' heav'nly Muse, 515 



84 MILTON 

Storied of old in high immortal vers 

Of dire Chimeras and inchanted iles, 

And rifted rocks whose entrance leads to Hell ; 

For such there be, but unbelief is blind. 

Within the navil of this hideous wood, 520 

Immur'd in cypress shades, a sorcerer dwels, 
Of Bacchus and of Circe born, great Comus, 
Deep skill'd in all his mother's witcheries. 
And here to every thirsty wanderer 

By sly enticement gives his baneful cup, 525 

With many murmurs mixt, whose pleasing poison 
The visage quite transforms of him that drinks. 
And the inglorious likenes of a beast 
Fixes instead, unmoulding reason's mintage 
Character'd in the face. This have I learn't 530 

Tending my flocks hard by i' th' hilly crofts 
That brow this bottom glade \ whence night by night 
He and his monstrous rout are heard to howl 
Like stabl'd wolves, or tigers at their prey, 
Doing abhorred rites to Hecate 535 

In their obscured haunts of inmost bowres. 
Yet have they many baits and guileful spells 
To inveigle and invite th' unwary sense 
Of them that pass unweeting by the way. 
This evening late, by then the chewing flocks 540 

Had ta'n their supper on the savoury herb 
Of knot-grass dew-besprent, and were in fold, 
I sat me down to watch upon a bank 
With ivy canopied, and interwove 

With flaunting hony-suckle, and began, 545 

Wrapt in a pleasing fit of melancholy. 
To meditate my rural minstrelsie. 
Till fancy had her fill. But ere a close 
The wonted roar was up amidst the woods. 
And fiU'd the ayr with barbarous dissonance ; 550 

At which I ceas't, and listen'd them a while, 
Till an unusual stop of sudden silence 
Gave respit to the drowsie frighted steeds 



COM us 85 

That draw the litter of close-curtain'd Sleep. 

At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound 555 

Rose like a steam of rich distill'd perfumes, 

And stole upon the air, that even Silence 

Was took ere she was ware, and wished she might 

Deny her nature, and be never more. 

Still to be so displac't. I was all ear, 560 

And took in strains that might create a soul 

Under the ribs of Death. But, oh ! ere long 

Too well I did perceive it was the voice 

Of my most honour'd Lady, your dear sister. 

Amaz'd I stood, harrow'd with grief and fear ; 565 

And " O poor hapless nightingale," thought I, 

" How sweet thou sing'st, how near the deadly snare ! " 

Then down the lawns I ran with headlong hast. 

Through paths and turnings oft'n trod by day, 

Till, guided by mine ear, I found the place 570 

Where that damn'd wisard, hid in sly disguise 

(For so by certain signes I knew), had met 

Already, ere my best speed could prevent, 

The aidless innocent lady, his wish't prey ; 

Who gently ask't if he had seen such two, 575 

Supposing him som neighbour villager. 

Longer I durst not stay, but soon I guess't 

Ye were the two she meant ; with that I sprung 

Into swift flight, till I had found you here ; 

But further know I not. 

Sec. Bro. O night and shades, 580 

How are ye joyn'd with hell in tripple knot 
Against the unarm'd weakness of one virgin, 
Alone and helpless ! Is this the confidence 
You gave me, brother? 

Eld. Bro. Yes, and keep it still ; 

Lean on it safely ; not a period 585 

Shall be unsaid for me. Against the threats 
Of malice or of sorcery, or that power 
Which erring men call Chance, this I hold firm 
Vertue may be assail'd, but never hurt. 



86 MILTON 

Surpriz'd by unjust force, but not enthrall'd ; 590 

Yea, even that which Mischief meant most harm 

Shall in the happy trial prove most glory. 

But evil on itself shall back recoyl, 

And mix no more with goodness, when at last, 

Gather'd hke scum, and settl'd to itself, 595 

It shall be in eternal restless change 

Self-fed and self-consum'd. If this fail, 

The pillar'd firmament is rott'nness, 

And earth's base built on stubble. But com, let's on ! 

Against th' opposing will and arm of Heav'n 600 

May never this just sword be lifted up ; 

But for that damn'd magician, let him be girt 

With all the griesly legions that troop 

Under the sooty flag of Acheron, 

Harpyes and Hydras, or all the monstrous forms 605 

'Twixt Africa and Inde, He find him out. 

And force him to return his purchase back, 

Or drag him by the curls to a foul death, 

Curs'd as his life. 

Spir. Alas ! good ventrous youth, 

I love thy courage yet, and bold emprise ; 610 

But here thy sword can do thee little stead. 
Far other arms and other weapons must 
Be those that quell the might of hellish charms. 
He with his bare wand can unthred thy joynts, 
And crumble all thy sinews. 

Eld. Bro. Why, prethee, Shepherd, 615 

How durst thou then thyself approach so neer 
As to make this relation ? 

Spir. Care and utmost shifts 

How to secure the Lady from surprisal 
Brought to my mind a certain shepherd lad. 
Of small regard to see to, yet well skill'd 620 

In every vertuous plant and healing herb 
That spreds her verdant leaf to th' morning ray. 
He lov'd me well, and oft would beg me sing ; 
Which when I did, he on the tender grass 



COM us 87 

Would sit, and hearken even to extasie, 625 

And in requital ope his leathern scrip, 

And show me simples of a thousand names, 

Telling their strange and vigorous faculties. 

Amongst the rest a small unsightly root. 

But of divine effect, he cull'd me out. 630 

The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it. 

But in another countrey, as he said. 

Bore a bright golden flowre, but not in this soyl : 

Unknown, and Hke esteem'd, and the dull swain 

Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon ; 635 

And yet more med'cinal is it than that Moly 

That Hermes once to wise Ulysses gave. 

He call'd it Hasmony, and gave it me, 

And bad me keep it as of sov'ran use 

'Gainst all inchantments, mildew blast, or damp, 640 

Or gastly Furies' apparition. 

I purs't it up, but little reck'ning made, 

Till now that this extremity compell'd. 

But now 1 find it true ; for by this means 

I knew the foul inchanter, though disguis'd, 645 

Enter'd the very lime-twigs of his spells. 

And yet came off. If you have this about you 

(As I will give you when we go) you may 

Boldly assault the necromancer's hall ; 

Where if he be, with dauntless hardihood 650 

And brandish't blade rush on him : break his glass. 

And shed the lushious liquor on the ground ; 

But sease his wand. Though he and his curst crew 

Fierce signe of battail make, and menace high. 

Or, like the sons of Vulcan, vomit smoak, 655 

Yet will they soon retire, if he but shrink. 

Eld. Bro. Thyrsis, lead on apace ; He follow thee ; 
And som good angel bear a shield before us ! 



88 MILTON 

The Scene changes to a stately palace, set out with all manner 
of deliciousness : soft musick ; tables spred with all dainties. 
CoiMUS appears with his rabble, and the Lady set in an in- 
chanted chair : to 7uhom he offers his glass ; which she puts by, 
and goes about to rise. 

Comus. Nay, Lady, sit. If I but wave this wand, 
Your nerves are all chain'd up in alabaster, 660 

And you a statue, or as Daphne was. 
Root-bound, that fled Apollo. 

Lady. Fool, do not boast. 

Thou canst not touch the freedom of my minde 
With all thy charms, although this corporal rinde 
Thou haste immanacl'd while Heav'n sees good. 665 

Comus. Why are you vex't, Lady? why do you frown? 
Here dwell no frowns, nor anger ; from these gates 
Sorrow flies far. See, here be all the pleasures 
That fancy can beget on youthfuU thoughts, 
When the fresh blood grows lively, and returns 670 

Brisk as the April buds in primrose-season. 
And first behold this cordial julep here. 
That flames and dances in his crystal bounds. 
With spirits of balm and fragrant syrops raixt. 
Not that Nepenthes which the wife of Thone 675 

In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena 
Is of such power to stir up joy as this, 
To life so friendly, or so cool to thirst. 
Why should you be so cruel to yourself, 
And to those dainty limms, which Nature lent 6So 

For gentle usage and soft dehcacy? 
But you invert the cov'nants of her trust, 
And harshly deal, like an ill borrower. 
With that which you receiv'd on other terms, 
Scorning the unexempt condition 685 

By which all mortal frailty must subsist, 
Refreshment after toil, ease after pain. 
That have been tir'd all day without repast. 
And timely rest have wanted. But, fair virgin, 
This will restore all soon. 



COMUS 89 

Lady. 'Twill not, false traitor ! 690 

'Twill not restore the truth and honesty 
That thou hast banish't from thy tongue with lies. 
Was this the cottage and the safe abode 
Thou told'st me of ? What grim aspects are these, 
These oughly-headed monsters? Mercy guard me ! 695 
Hence with thy brew'd inchantments, foul deceiver ! 
Hast thou betrai'd my credulous innocence 
With vizor'd falshood and base forgery ? 
And would'st thou seek again to trap me here 
With lickerish baits, fit to ensnare a brute ? 700 

Were it a draft for Juno when she banquets, 
I would not taste thy treasonous offer. None 
But such as are good men can give good things ; 
And that which is not good is not delicious 
To a well-govern'd and wise appetite. 705 

Comus. O foolishnes of men ! that lend their ears 
To those budge doctors of the Stoick furr. 
And fetch their precepts from the Cynick tub, 
Praising the lean and sallow Abstinence ! 
Wherefore did Nature powre her bounties forth 710 

With such a full and unwithdrawing hand, 
Covering the earth w'ith odours, fruits, and flocks, 
Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable, 
But all to please and sate the curious taste ? 
And set to work millions of spinning worms, 715 

That in their green shops weave the smooth-hair'd silk, 
To deck her sons ; and, that no corner might 
Be vacant of her plenty, in her own loyns 
She hutch't th' all-worshipt ore and precious gems, 
To store her children with. If all the world 720 

Should, in a pet of temperance, feed on pulse. 
Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but freize, 
Th' All-giver would be unthank't, would be unprais'd, 
Not half his riches known, and yet despis'd ; 
And we should serve him as a grudging master, 725 

As a penurious niggard of his wealth. 
And live like Nature's bastards, not her sons, 



90 MIL TON 

Who would be quite surcharg'd with her own weight, 

And strangl'd with her waste fertility : 

Th' earth cumber'd, and the wing'd air dark't with plumes, 730 

The herds would over-multitude their lords ; 

The sea o'refraught would swel, and th' unsought diamonds 

Would so emblaze the forhead of the deep, 

And so bestudd with stars, that they below 

Would grow inur'd to light, and com at last 735 

To gaze upon the sun with shameles brows. 

List, Lady ; be not coy, and be not cozen'd 

With that same vaunted name. Virginity. 

Beauty is Nature's coyn ; must not be hoorded, 

But must be currant ; and the good thereof 740 

Consists in mutual and partak'n bliss, 

Unsavoury in th' injoyment of itself. 

If you let slip time, like a neglected rose 

It withers on the stalk with languish't head. 

Beauty is Nature's brag, and must be shown 745 

In courts, at feasts, and high solemnities. 

Where most may wonder at the workmanship. 

It is for homely features to keep home ; 

They had their name thence : coarse complexions 

And cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply 750 

The sampler, and to teize the huswife's wooll. 

What need a vermeil-tinctur'd Hp for that. 

Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn? 

There was another meaning in these gifts ; 

Think what, and be adviz'd ; you are but young yet. 755 

Lady. I had not thought to have unlockt my lips 
In this unhallow'd air, but that this jugler 
Would think to charm my judgement, as mine eyes, 
Obtruding false rules pranckt in reason's garb. 
I hate when vice can bolt her arguments 760 

And vertue has no tongue to check her pride. 
Impostor ! do not charge most innocent Nature, 
As if she would her children should be riotous 
With her abundance. She, good cateres. 
Means her provision only to the good, 765 



COM us 91 

That live according to her sober laws, 

And holy dictate of spare Temperance. 

If every just man that now pines with want 

Had but a moderate and beseeming share 

Of that which lewdly-pamper'd Luxury 770 

Now heaps upon som few with vast excess, 

Nature's full blessings would be well-dispenc't 

In unsuperfluous eeven proportion. 

And she no whit encomber'd with her store ; 

And then the Giver would be better thank't, 775 

His praise due paid : for swinish gluttony 

Ne're looks to Heav'n amidst his gorgeous feast, 

But with besotted base ingratitude 

Cramms, and blasphemes his Feeder. Shall I go on? 

Or have I said anow ? To him that dares 7S0 

Arm his profane tongue with contemptuous words 

Against the sun-clad power of chastity 

Fain would I something say ; — yet to what end ? 

Thou hast nor ear, nor soul, to apprehend 

The sublime notion and high mystery 785 

That must be utter'd to unfold the sage 

And serious doctrine of Virginity ; 

And thou art worthy that thou shouldst not know 

More happiness than this thy present lot. 

Enjoy your dear wit, and gay rhetorick, 790 

That hath so well been taught her dazling fence ; 

Thou art not fit to hear thyself convinc't. 

Yet, should I try, the uncontrouled worth 

Of this pure cause would kindle my rap't spirits 

To such a flame of sacred vehemence 795 

That dumb things would be mov'd to sympathize. 

And the brute Earth would lend her nerves, and shake, 

Till all thy magick structures, rear'd so high, 

Were shatter'd into heaps o're thy false head. 

Co mils. She fables not. I feel that I do fear 800 

Her words set off by som superior power ; 
And, though not mortal, yet a cold shuddring dew 
Dips me all o're, as when the wrath of Jove 



92 MIL TON 

Speaks thunder and the chains of Erebus 

To som of Saturn's crew. I must dissemble, 805 

And try her yet more strongly. — Com, no more ! 

This is meer moral babble, and direct 

Against the canon laws of our foundation. 

I must not suffer this ; yet 'tis but the lees 

And setlings of a melancholy blood. 810 

But this will cure all streight ; one sip of this 

Will bathe the drooping spirits in delight 

Beyond the bliss of dreams. Be wise, and taste . . . 

The Brothers rush in with szvords draivn, tvrest his glass out of 
his hand, and break it against the ground : his 7-0 ut make sign 
of resistance, but are all driven in. The Attendant Spirit 
comes in. 

Spir. What ! have you let the false enchanter scape ? 
O ye mistook ; ye should have snatcht his wand, 815 

And bound him fast. Without his rod revers't. 
And backward mutters of dissevering power. 
We cannot free the Lady that sits here 
In stony fetters fixt and motionless. 

Yet stay : be not disturb'd ; now I bethink me, 820 

Some other means I have which may be us'd. 
Which once of Meliboeus old I learnt, 
The soothest shepherd that e'er pip't on plains. 

There is a gentle Nymph not far from hence, 
That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream : 825 
Sabrina is her name : a virgin pure ; 
Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine, 
That had the scepter from his father Brute. 
She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuit 
Of her enraged stepdam, Guendolen, 830 

Commended her fair innocence to the flood 
That stay'd her flight with his cross-flowing course. 
The water-nymphs, that in the bottom play'd, 
Held up their pearled wrists, and took her in. 
Bearing her straight to aged Nereus' hall ; 835 



i 



coMUS 93 

Who, piteous of her woes, rear'd her lank head, 

And gave her to his daughters to imbathe 

In nectar'd lavers strew'd with asphodil, 

And through the porch and inlet of each sense 

Dropt in ambrosial oils, till she reviv'd, S40 

And underwent a quick immortal change, 

Made Goddess of the river. Still she retains 

Her maid'n gentlenes, and oft at eeve 

Visits the herds along the twilight meadows, 

Helping all urchin blasts, and ill-luck signes 845 

That the shrewd medling elfe delights to make, 

Which she with pretious viol'd liquors heals : 

For which the shepherds, at their festivals, 

Carrol her goodnes lowd in rustick layes, 

And throw sweet garland wreaths into her stream 850 

Of pancies, pinks, and gaudy daffadils. 

And, as the old swain said, she can unlock 

The clasping charm, and thaw the numming spell. 

If she be right invok't in warbled song ; 

For maid'nhood she loves, and will be swift 855 

To aid a virgin, such as was herself, 

In hard-besetting need. This will I try, 

And adde the power of som adjuring verse. 

Song 

Sabrina fair, 

Listen where thou art sitting 860 

Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave. 

In twisted braids of lillies knitting 
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair ; 

Listen for dear honour's sake, 

Goddess of the silver lake, 865 

Listen and save ! 

Listen, and appear to us. 

In name of great Oceanus, 

By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace. 

And Tethys' grave majestick pace ; 870 



94 MIL TON 

By hoary Nereus' wrincled look, 

And the Carpathian wisard's hook ; 

By scaly Triton's winding shell, 

And old sooth-saying Glaucus' spell ; 

By Leucothea's lovely hands, 875 

And her son that rules the strands ; 

By Thetis' tinsel-slipper'd feet, 

And the songs of Sirens sweet ; 

By dead Parthenope's dear tomb, 

And fair Ligea's golden comb, 880 

Wherewith she sits on diamond rocks 

Sleeking her soft alluring locks ; 

By all the nymphs that nightly dance 

Upon thy streams with wily glance ; 

Rise, rise, and heave thy rosie head 8S5 

From thy coral-pav'n bed, 

And bridle in thy headlong wave. 

Till thou our summons answer'd have. 

Listen and save ! 

Sabrina rises, attejided by Water-nymphs, and sings, 

By the rushy-fringed bank, S90 

Where grows the willow and the osier dank, 

My sliding chariot stayes, 
Thick set with agat, and the azurn sheen 
Of turkis blew, and emrauld green, 

That in the channel strayes : 895 

Whilst from off the waters fleet 
Thus I set my printless feet 
O're the cowslip's velvet head. 

That bends not as I tread. 
Gentle swain, at thy request 900 

I am here ! 

Spir. Goddess dear. 
We implore thy powerful hand 
To undo the charmed band 
Of true virgin here distrest 905 



coMUS 95 

Through the force and through the wile 
Of unblest inchanter vile. 

Sabr. Shepherd, 'tis my office best 
To help insnared chastity. 

Brightest Lady, look on me. 91° 

Thus I sprinkle on thy brest 
Drops that from my fountain pure 
I have kept of pretious cure ; 
Thrice upon thy finger's tip, 

Thrice upon thy rubied lip : 915 

Next this marble venom'd seat, 
Smear'd with gumms of glutenous heat, 
I touch with chaste palms moist and cold. 
Now the spell hath lost his hold. 
And I must haste ere morning hour 920 

To wait in Amphitrite's bowr. 

Sabrina descends, and the Lady rises out of her seat. 

Spir. Virgin, daughter of Locrine, 
Sprung of old Anchises' line. 
May thy brimmed waves for this 

Their full tribute never miss 925 

From a thousand petty rills, 
That tumble down the snowy hills : 
Summer drouth or singed air 
Never scorch thy tresses fair, 

Nor wet October's torrent flood 93° 

Thy molten crystal fill with mudd ; 
May thy billows rowl ashoar 
The beryl and the golden ore ; 
May thy lofty head be crown 'd 

With many a tower and terras round, 935 

And here and there thy banks upon 
With groves of myrrhe and cinnamon. 

Com, Lady ; while Heaven lends us grace, 
Let us fly this cursed place, 

Lest the sorcerer us entice 94° 

With som other new device. 



96 MILTON 

Not a waste or needless sound 

Till we com to holier ground. 

I shall be your faithfuU guide 

Through this gloomy covert wide; 945 

And not many furlongs thence 

Is your Father's residence, 

Where this night are met in state 

Many a friend to gratulate 

His wish't presence, and beside 950 

All the swains that there abide 

With jiggs and rural dance resort. 

We shall catch them at their sport, 

And our sudden coming there 

Will double all their mirth and chere. 955 

Com, let us haste ; the stars grow high, 

But Night sits monarch yet in the mid sky. 

The Scene clianges, presenting Litdlow Town, and tiie Presidenfs 
Castle : then com in Countrey-Dancers ; after them the Attend- 
ant Spirit, ^vith the Two Brothers and the Lady. 

Song 

Spir. Back, shepherds, back ! Anough your play 
Till next sun-shine holiday. 

Here be, without duck or nod, 960 

Other trippings to be trod 
Of lighter toes, and such court guise 
As Mercury did first devise 
With the mincing Dryades 
On the lawns and on the leas. 965 

This second Song presents them to their Father and Mother. 

Noble Lord and Lady bright, 
I have brought ye new delight. 
Here behold so goodly grown 
Three fair branches of your own. 
Heav'n hath timely tri'd their youth, 970 



coMus 97 

Their faith, their patience, and their truth, 

And sent them here through hard assays 

With a crown of deathless praise, 

To triumph in victorious dance 

O'er sensual folly and intemperance. 975 

The dances ended, the Spirit epiloguizes, 

Spir. To the ocean now I fly, 
And those happy climes that ly 
Where day never shuts his eye, 
Up in the broad fields of the sky. 

There I suck the liquid air, 9S0 

All amidst the gardens fair 
Of Hesperus, and his daughters three 
That sing about the golden tree. 
Along the crisped shades and bowres 

Revels the spruce and jocond Spring ; 985 

The Graces and the rosie-boosom'd Hovvres 
Thither all their bounties bring. 
There eternal Summer dvvels, 
And west winds with musky wing 

About the cedarn alleys fling 990 

Nard and cassia's balmy sraels. 
Iris there with humid bow 
Waters the odorous banks, that blow 
Flowers of more mingled hew 

Than her purfl'd scarf can shew, 995 

And drenches with Elysian dew 
(List, mortals, if your ears be true) 
Beds of hyacinth and roses. 
Where young Adonis oft reposes. 

Waxing well of his deep wound, 1000 

In slumbers soft ; and on the ground 
Sadly sits th' Assyrian queen. 
But far above, in spangled sheen. 
Celestial Cupid, her fam'd son, advanc't 
Holds his dear Psyche, sweet intranc't 1005 

H 



98 MIL TON 

After her wandering labours long, 
Till free consent the gods among 
Make her his eternal bride, 
And from her fair unspotted side 
Two blissful twins are to be born, loio 

Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn. 
But now my task is smoothly don : 
I can fly, or I can run 
Quickly to the green earth's end, 
Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend, 1015 

And from thence can soar as soon 
To the corners of the moon. 
Mortals, that would follow me, 
Love Vertue ; she alone is free. 
She can -teach ye how to clime 1020 

Higher than the spheary chime ; 
Or, if Vertue feeble were, 
Heav'n itself would stoop to her. 

SONNETS 

II 

On his having arrived at the Age of Twenty-three 

How soon hath Time, the suttle theef of youth, 

Stoln on his wing my three-and-twentieth yeer ! 

My hasting dayes flie on with full career. 

But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. 

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth 5 

That I to manhood am arriv'd so near ; 
And inward ripenes doth much less appear, 
That som more timely-happy spirits indu'th. 

Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow. 

It shall be still in strictest measure eev'n 10 

To that same lot, however mean or high. 

Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n. 
All is, if I have grace to use it so. 
As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. 



SONN'ETS 99 

XVI 

To THE Lord General Cromwell, May, 1652 

ON THE proposals OF CERTAIN MINISTERS AT THE COMMITTEE FOR 
PROPAGATION OF THE GOSPEL 

Cromwell, our chief of men, that through a cloud 
Not of war only, but detractions rude, 
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude. 
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast plough'd, 

And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud 5 

Hast rear'd God's trophies, and his work pursu'd. 
While Darwent stream, with blood of Scots imbru'd. 
And Dunbar field, resound thy praises loud, 

And VVorcester's laureat wreath : yet much remains 

To conquer still ; Peace hath her victories 10 

No less renowned than War : new foes arise, 

Threatning to bind our souls with secular chains. 
Help us to save free conscience from the paw 
Of hireling wolves, whose Gospel is their maw. 

XIX 

On HIS Blindness 

When I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, 
And that one talent which is death to hide 
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent 
- To serve therewith my Maker, and present 5 

My true account, lest He returning chide, 
" Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd ? " 
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent 

That murmur, soon repHes, " God doth not need 

Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best 10 

Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best. His state 

Is kingly : thousands at his bidding speed, 

And post o're land and ocean without rest ; 
They also serve who only stand and waite." 

LofC. 



lOO THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY 

XXII 

To Mr. Cyriac Skinner 

UPON HIS BLINDNESS 

Cyriac, this three years' day these eyes, though clear, 
To outward view, of blemish or of spot. 
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot ; 
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 

Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, 5 

Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not 
Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate one jo*" 
Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer 

Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? 

The conscience, friend, to have lost them overply'd 10 
In Libertie's defence, my noble task, 

Of which all Europe rings from side to side, 

This thought might lead me through the world's vain 

mask 
Content, though blind, had I no better guide. 

2. THE AGE OF THE RESTORATION 

The year 1660 is an important date in English history and literature. 
Cromwell was dead, Puritanism had lost its political ascendency, the 
Stuarts had been reseated upon the throne, and with the cessation 
of the internecine struggle for power a new and modern England had 
sprung into life. In many ways it was a strong and self-reliant 
England that now arose. Science and industry took vast strides. 
" Reason " and " intellect " were hailed as watchwords of the coming 
time. Men centred their attention on the world of actual condi- 
tions rather than on that of emotional ideals and disputed rights. 
Though Englishmen of the mass treasured freedom and exalted 
self reliance, individuality of thought and action gave place to a desire 
for conformity with fixed and generally approved standards. Though 
the Puritan leaven still worked in the lump, and always will work, the 
people as a whole frankly enjoyed life, and many turned to pleasures 
which contrasted oddly with the " other worldliness " of the Puritan age. 
In the circles of court and of London society the temperance and re- 



JOHN DRYDEM lOI 

straint of the earlier time were only too gladly flung to the winds. The 
moral degradation of the king and his followers is almost beyond belief. 
In their estimation, to be honest and virtuous was to be held a Puritan ; 
and the Puritans were objects of unsparing ridicule and contempt. The 
effect of this social revolution upon literature may be easily imagined ; 
it was at once apparent in a debased moral tone, especially of the drama. 
The theatres were again thrown open, and a school of dramatists arose, 
vigorous and witty in style, yet unparalleled in deliberate indecency. 

It must not be inferred, however, that this debasement of moral tone 
was the only effect of the Restoration upon literature. It was not, 
indeed, the principal effect. Charles II, on returning to his country, 
brought with him from his exile in France a taste for the literary style 
and literary models of the French. Literature in France, at this 
time the most brilliant on the continent, attached great importance 
to form, and was elaborating to a remarkable degree the theory and art 
of criticism. The poetry of England, save in the hands of Milton and 
a very few others, had, as we have remarked, become extravagant and 
fantastic in the extreme. Reform was evidently necessary ; the new 
conditions made reform possible. Finish and neatness of expression 
were now desired ; and the French masters of the critical art were 
busy devising rules by which this finish and neatness, this exactness 
and lucidity, might be obtained. All this was very congenial to the 
newly awakened critical intellectuality of England ; and the result was 
that the Italian influence, which had been stimulatmg English poetry 
for over two centuries and a half, now gave way to a century of influence 
on the part of France. We shall find poetry, during the period of 
French influence, correct but cold, intellectual rather than emotional, 
satiric and didactic rather than lyric and passionate. Towering above 
the group of lesser writers who devoted themselves to this new fashion 
of literature, stands a splendidly intellectual representative of the spirit 
of his time : the poet, dramatist, and critic, JOHN dryden. 

JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1700) 

" I confess," says Dryden, " that my chief endeavors are to delight the 
age in which I live. If the humor of this be for low comedy, small 
accidents, and raillery, I will force my genius to obey it." This state- 
ment explains why John Dryden, brilliant thinker and master-critic 
though he was, cannot be placed with the seers of English poetry, 
certainly not with that highest group of those who are seers and creators 
in one. He was incomparably the most distinguished author of his 
age ; but it was not an imaginative age, therefore not an age favorable 
to the truest and most lasting kind of poetry. It was an age of criti- 



I02 THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY 

cism rather than of creation ; and this poet reflects the spirit of his times 
in being a great critic rather than a great literary artist. To usher in a 
vital alteration of literary style was his mission. He aimed at virile 
thinking, subtle perhaps, but heavy never nor often profound, at accu- 
rate form, elegant diction, poHshed style, perfect versification — and in 
all these respects he succeeded admirably. The heroic couplet, which 
he used almost exclusively in his poems, was well suited to their aim and 
spirit. He was a master of satire and an adept in the sword-play of wit. 
But he lacks sympathetic and interpretative imagination, has but little 
love for nature, distrusts tenderness and emotion, and is sadly wanting 
in the stability which comes from fixed moral pnnciples and high 
resolves. Some of his dramas display creative power, but not of the 
first quality. In prose he shines, and m his historical and critical judg- 
ments of literature he stands forth as the most commanding literary 
personality of his age. 

1631-1663. — Dryden was born in Northamptonshire, of good family, 
and was educated, first at Westminster School, and afterward in Trin- 
ity College, Cambridge. Upon his graduation, in 1657, he went to 
London, and the next year produced some Heroic Stanzas on the Death 
of Oliver Cromwell. Two years later, however, in common with the 
great mass of his countrymen, his sentiments underwent a change ; and 
on the restoration of Charles II he wrote a poem to celebrate that 
event. 

1663-1681. — In 1663 he married, and, as a means of livelihood, 
began to write for the stage. Although his twenty-eight plays exhibit 
the vices that characterize the Restoration drama, their merit was at 
least sufficient to procure for him a reputation as the first dramatist of 
his time. The drama, however, was not completely suited to Dryden's 
cast of mind. Much more vital than his plays were the critical essays 
which preceded some of them. Here the author has not only assisted 
in laying the foundation for modern English criticism, but has also 
elaborated a style which is far more like modern prose than is that of 
any writer before his time. In 1670 he was made Poet Laureate, with a 
salary of two hundred pounds a year. For the next ten years he wrote 
little beside his plays. 

1681-1689. — In 1681, at fifty years of age, the poet entered upon his 
most important sphere of literary activity : he began to write satires. 
Of these splendid creations the first was Absalom and Achitophel, soon 
followed by the Medal, MacFlecknoe, and others ; and in all of them the 
author shows his superiority not only over the satirists of his own time, 
but of most times. During this period he adopted the Roman Catholic 
faith, and, in 1687, published the Hind and the Panther. In this a plea 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST IO3 

is made for the Church of Rome, which is portrayed as a milk-white 
hind. The reasoning is acute, and the verse musical. 

1689-1700. — In 1689, on the accession of William and Mary, the 
poet, as a Catholic loyalist, lost his laureateship and other offices, and 
was again obliged to seek an income from his pen. He turned to the 
drama once more, but without success. His next venture was an 
excellent verse translation of Virgil, which he finished in 1697. Finally, 
in 1699, he finished his so-called Fables^ in which the stories of Chaucer 
and others were paraphrased. One year later he died and was buried 
in Westminster Abbey, beside the tomb of Chaucer. His more valuable 
work as poet had all been done within the last nineteen years of his Hfe. 
No other English poet, save Cowper, matured so late as he, and very 
few have ruled, like him, supremely as literary dictators of their time. 

If we were to select for reading the most typical of Dryden's non- 
dramatic poems, it would be, no doubt, from the satires. The Absalom 
and Achitophel will liberally repay the student who is able to give 
mature attention to the history involved. Since the satires, however, 
very largely lose their flavor unless the reader is acquainted with the 
men and motives that inspired them, we have passed over these, and 
selected instead one of the two odes upon which rests Dryden's fame 
as a lyric poet. It will, perhaps, illustrate better than any other kind of 
poem the author's power of language and dexterity in versification. 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST; 

OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC 

A Song in Honour of St. Cecilia's Day : lOgy 



'TwAS at the royal feast for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike son. 
Aloft in awful state 
The godlike hero sate 
On his imperial throne ; 
His valiant peers were plac'd around, 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound ; 
(So shou'd desert in arms be crown'd.) 



104 DRYDEN 



The lovely Thais, by his side, 

Sate like a blooming Eastern bride, lo 

In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride. 
Happy, happy, happy pair ! 

None but the brave, 

None but the brave. 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 15 

Chorus 

Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 



Timotheus, plac'd on high 20 

Amid the tuneful quire, 
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre ; 
The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
And heav'nly joys inspire. 
The song began from Jove, 25 

Who left his blissful seats above, 
(Such is the pow'r of mighty love.) 
A dragon's fiery form bely'd the God ; 
Subhme on radiant spires he rode, 
When he to fair Olympia press'd; 30 

And, while he sought her snowy breast, 
Then round her slender waste he curl'd. 
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'raign of the world. 
The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound, 
A present deity, they shout around ; 35 

A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound. 
With ravish'd ears 
The monarch hears, 
Assumes the god. 

Affects to nod, 4° 

And seems to shake the spheres. 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST 105 

Chorus 

With ravish'd ears 
The monarch hears, 
Assumes the god, 

Affects to nod, 45 

And seems to shake the spheres. 



The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, 
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young : 
The jolly god in triumph comes ; 
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ; 50 

Flush'd with a purple grace 
He shews his honest face ; 
Now give the hautboys breath ; he comes, he comes. 
Bacchus, ever fair and young. 

Drinking joys did first ordain ; 55 

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; 
Rich the treasure, 
.Sweet the pleasure. 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 60 

Chorus 

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; 

Rich the treasure, 

Sweet the pleasure. 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 65 



Sooth'd with the sound the king grew vain ; 
Fought all his battails o'er again ; 
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. 
The master saw the madness rise, 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 70 



I06 DRY DEN 

And, while he heaven and earth defy'd, 
Chang'd his hand, and check'd his pride. 

He chose a mournful Muse, 

Soft pity to infuse ; 
He sung Darius great and good, 75 

By too severe a fate 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 

Fallen from his high estate, 
And weltring in his blood. 

Deserted at his utmost need 80 

By those his former bounty fed, 
On the bare earth expos'd he lyes, 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, 

Revolveing in his alter'd soul 85 

The various turns of chance below ; 

And, now and then, a sigh he stole. 
And tears began to flow. 

Chorus 

Revolveing in his alter'd soul 

The various turns of chance below ; 90 

And, now and then, a sigh he stole. 

And tears began to flow. 

5 
The mighty master smil'd to see 
That love was in the next degree : 

'Twas but a kindred sound to move, 95 

For pity melts the mind to love. 

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, 

Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 
Honour but an empty bubble ; 100 

Never ending, still beginning, 
Fighting still, and still destroying ; 

If the world be worth thy winning. 
Think, O think it worth enjoying : 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST IO7 

Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 105 

Take the good the gods provide thee. 
The many rend the skies with loud applause ; 
So Love was crown'd, but Musique won the cause. 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 

Gaz'd on the fair no 

Who caus'd his care, 
And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, 
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again : 
At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, 
The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast. 115 

Chonis 

The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gaz'd on the fair 
Who caus'd his care. 
And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, 
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again : 120 

At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, 
The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast. 



Now strike the golden lyre again ; 
A lowder yet, and yet a lowder strain. 
Break his bands of sleep asunder, 125 

And rouze him, like a rattling peal of thunder. 
Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
Has rais'd up his head, 
As awak'd from the dead. 
And amaz'd he stares around. 130 

Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries ; 
See the Furies arise ; 
See the snakes that they rear, 
How they hiss in their hair. 
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! 135 

Behold a ghastly band, 
Each a torch in his hand ! 



I08 DRY DEN 

Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battail were slayn, 
And unbury'd remain 

Inglorious on the plain : 140 

Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 
Behold how they toss their torches on high, 
How they point to the Persian abodes, 
And glitt'ring temples of their hostile gods. 145 

The princes applaud with a furious joy ; 
And the king seyz'd a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; 
Thais led the way, 
To light him to his prey. 
And, like another Hellen, fir'd another Troy. 150 

Chorus 

And the king seyz'd a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; 

Thais led the way, 

To light him to his prey, 
And, like another Hellen, fir'd another Troy. 



Thus, long ago, 155 

Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, 
While organs yet were mute, 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
And sounding lyre, 
Cou'd swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 160 

At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds. 
And added length to solemn sounds, 165 

With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown : 
He rais'd a mortal to the skies ; 

She drew an angel down. 170 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST I09 

Chorus 

At last divine Cecilia came, 

Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 

Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds, 

And added length to solemn sounds, 175 

With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 

Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 
Or both divide the crown : 

He rais'd a mortal to the skies ; . 

She drew an angel down. 180 



CHAPTER VI 
THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

I. THE CLASSICAL OR CONVENTIONAL SCHOOL 

The intellectual and artificial school of poetry which, as we have 
said, arose not long after the accession of Charles II, continued, with- 
out any considerable change, through the greater part of the eighteenth 
century. Taste was still largely governed by precepts borrowed from 
France, which, in its turn, pretended to be governed by the practice 
of the masters of Greece and Rome. But the French cultivated few 
of the ancient masters, save Horace and Juvenal, and these they fol- 
lowed at a very decided distance. Poetry in England remained chiefly 
satirical, didactic, pseudo-philosophical. In their desire to avoid the 
extravagances of the later Elizabethans, writers carefully avoided not 
only the recklessly imaginative manner and the free and easy blank- 
verse form, but even the subjects of the earlier poetry. Dramas and 
lyrics expressing the passions of man, his conduct in the moment of 
dramatic activity, his yearning for adventure and his love of nature, were 
discarded for critical essays in verse upon the institutions of man and 
the conventions of society, or stanzas of rhetorical diction and ingenious 
wit tinkling in the breeze of artificial emotion. The attempt of any 
poet to overleap the boundaries within which the set rules of the art 
had confined him was regarded as proof that he was really no poet. 
Nothing could be beautiful if irregularly beautiful. Hence individuality 
was repressed, and writers retained scarcely any other mark of personal 
distinction than the degree in which wit was keen or style laboriously 
elegant. 

The uniformity of style in the writers of this school is accentuated by 
the inflexibility of the verse form which it had adopted, and which held 
almost complete sway in English poetry for over a hundred years. 
This was the heroic couplet, consisting of two iambic pentameter lines 
connected by rhyme — a form of which Macaulay says in his essay on 
Addison : " The art of arranging words in this measure, so that the 

no 



THE CLASSICAL SCHOOL 1 1 I 

lines may flow smoothly, that the accents may fall correctly, that the 
rhymes may strike the ear strongly, and that there may be a pause at 
the end of every distich, is an art as mechanical as that of mending a 
kettle or shoeing a horse, and may be learned by any human being 
who has sense enough to learn anything. But, like other mechanical 
arts, it was gradually improved by means of many experiments and 
many failures. It was reserved for Pope to discover the trick, to 
make himself complete master of it, and to teach it to everybody else." 
Though Macaulay, in this passage, shows not a little of his charac- 
teristic dogmatism, and underestimates the skill requisite to write good 
heroic couplets, at least two of his statements are unquestionably true : 
first, that ALEXANDER POPE made himself absolute master of this form 
of verse ; and secondly, that many of his contemporaries imitated him. 
These two facts explain Pope's leadership of what a distinguished critic 
designates as the "artificial-conventional school of verse," with its 
ideals of emotional reserve and mental equipoise, its methods of formal 
correctness, point, and finish. The heroic couplet in which they wrote 
was, as we have already noticed, an old and common English measure. 
But in Chaucer and other poets who had early used the couplet, as well 
as in Keats and Swinburne and other poets of the nineteenth century 
who have since employed it, the thought runs on connectedly from line to 
line and couplet to couplet, stopping to take breath somewhere within 
a line, if it pleases, in a manner that would not have been tolerated by 
the rule of the end-stopt couplet and unit line used in the eighteenth 
century (see introduction). The influence of Dryden's personaUty 
had been such as to popularize even rugged and vigorous couplets as a 
vehicle of expression. When Pope met the demands of his age, not 
only with couplets perfect in their sprightliness and polish, but also with 
phraseology unparalleled for conciseness and lucidity, he rose at once 
to a position of acknowledged leadership among the poets of his time. 
The influences of this dictatorship were both bad and good. On 
the one hand, scores of writers who, as Macaulay says, " never blun- 
dered on one happy thought or expression," in their attempt to follow 
the lead of Pope, inflicted upon the world " reams of couplets " entirely 
mechanical and artificial, and utterly devoid of poetry. On the other 
hand, subsequent English poetry could ill afford to dispense with the 
characteristics indirectly derived from the manner of Pope and his 
disciples. These writers of the " Classical school " labored from the 
first for a neatness, condensation, and perfection of style, such as 
had hitherto been strangers to English verse, but which, once attained, 
have never since been wholly disregarded. No poet to-day could 
write in the untrained, formless manner that marks, and so frequently 
mars, some very excellent early Elizabethans. The influence of Pope's 



112 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

scbool remained long after the school had passed away. But, as we 
shall see, neither the authority of Pope in the first half of the century, 
nor that of his great disciple, dr. johnson (1709-1784), in the latter 
half, was sufficient to prevent a gradual reactionary movement which, 
before the century was over, should again usher in the poetic ideals of 
Chaucer, Milton, and Spenser in place of those of Dryden, Johnson, 
and Pope. 

ALEXANDER POPE (i 688-1 744) 

If Wordsworth was right in saying that " all good poetry is the spon- 
taneous overflow of powerful feeling," Alexander Pope was certainly 
not a good poet. Indeed, he fails to meet almost any standard which 
the present day would advance as a test of what is in spirit poetic. Like 
his master Dryden, he cared nothing for nature, and gave her scant 
attention in his verse. Like Dryden also, he has little emotion, little 
passion, little inspiration, little power of inspiring others. He is rarely 
inventive or strikingly original ; he pretends to no power of imagina- 
tion ; he brings no lofty message to the world. He is the poet of " the 
town," with its fashionable and conventional life : — the " life of the court 
and the ballroom " ; the poet of biting satire and caustic criticism ; the 
poet of the transitory and fleeting. Yet the time has been when 
Alexander Pope was considered the greatest of English poets, and a 
model for all future poetry. 

If we limit our view of poetry, as above, to its content only, its imagi- 
native thought and feeling, we cannot understand the verdict of the 
eigliteenth century. But so to restrict our judgment would be mani- 
festly unjust, for poetrv resides in the form as well as in the content. 
In the /(?;■;;/ of his poetic production — its fitness, finish, and grace, its 
compactness of expression, its terseness of epigram, its darting wit — 
Pope stands almost without a rival. His ideals are absolute correctness 
and rigid self-criticism. He aims to express what he has to say in the 
very best possible form, and his success is absolute. No English writer, 
outside of Shakespeare, has given us so many oft-quoted and quotable 
lines, simply because no one has expressed his thoughts so compactly 
or so well. Indeed, none of our poets has had such an influence in 
shaping a literary epoch as Pope had in the eighteenth century. 
Though the critics of to-day do not accord him a place in the highest 
order of poets, they rank him, like Dryden, among the most important 
factors in the development of our literature. 

1688-1712. — Pope was born in London in 1688. His education, 
since his father was a Roman Catholic, was first under the tuition of 
Catholic priests ; after the age of twelve, however, under his own guid- 



ALEXANDER POPE II3 

ance. When a mere lad he resolved to devote himself to poetry; and, 
aided by his father's criticism, he commenced at a very early age to 
write. He was badly deformed and sickly all his life ; whatever he has 
accomplished marks, therefore, the triumph of will and artistic ambition 
in a lifelong conflict with disease. His first published work was the 
Pastorals. These appeared when he was twenty-one, and were followed 
two years later by his Essay on Criticism, and the first cast, in two 
cantos, of The Rape of the Lock. The poet's success was immediate 
and unquestioned. 

1712-1728. — In 1713 appeared Windsor Forest, and the next year 
the enlarged form of The Rape of the Lock, now ordinarily read. Shortly 
afterward Pope removed from Binfield, the home of his childhood, to 
Chiswick, and then to Twickenham, towns on the Thames, a few miles 
west of London. From 171 5 to 1720 he was at work on a translation 
of Homer's Iliad. The result has been characterized as "a very pretty 
poem, but not Homer." Indeed, Pope had little knowledge of the Greek 
language, and absolutely no sympathy with its spirit. So, although the 
translation brought him money and fame, and although it is still 
better known than any other, it is nevertheless a very poor medium 
through which to gain acquaintance with the greatest of epic poets. In 
1725 a translation of the C'^i'j-^/ appeared. Three years later, when he 
was forty years of age, the poet sent out from his comfortable retreat of 
Twickenham the Dunciad, a bitter satire upon the minor poets and 
critics who had chanced to incur his displeasure. 

1728-1744. — The rest of his life was spent in writing a series of half- 
philosophical, half-satirical poems, which, though they may fail in value 
when considered as wholes, are certainly unique as armories of terse 
and trenchant lines. Among these poems are the famous Essay on Man 
(1733); "^ revision and enlargement of the Dtinciad ten years later; 
and various epistles, satires, and miscellaneous verses, between these 
two dates. In 1744, just after his fifty-sixth birthday. Pope died. His 
friends and early admirers had nearly all preceded him to the grave, or, 
if still living, were estranged by his irritability, his jealousy and sus- 
picion, and his underhanded methods of procedure. His keenness and 
his vital powers were clearly on the wane ; disease was making inroads 
upon his feeble body. The end, under such conditions, was probably 
not unwelcome. 

It is no easy matter to select from the works of Pope the parts which 
are best deserving study. The epistles and satires depend for their 
appreciation upon an acquaintance with the circumstances that called 
them forth. The Essay on Man, despite its brilliant lines and passages, 
appears superficial to readers of to-day. The Rape of the Lock, however, 
I 



114 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

requires for an enjoyment of its sparkling and fanciful wit no unreason- 
ably minute acquaintance with the personalities or scenes involved ; and 
since it is probably the most highly finis,hed of Pope's purely fanciful 
creations and one of the finest mock-heroic poems ever written, we 
have selected it. To insert here the whole of it would be to give Pope 
almost an undue importance. To present only one or two cantos, on 
the other hand, would be merely to spoil a delightful story. We 
have, therefore, decided to reproduce the poem as it was first printed 
in Lintofs Miscellany (171 2), — the form that made its author famous, 
and that Addison termed '•^ merum saP'' — pure wit. When Pope 
proposed to enlarge the first edition of The Rape of the Lock, Addi- 
son advised against the suggestion, and by so doing turned Pope 
from a warm friend to a bitter enemy, for the well-meant advice was 
interpreted as proceeding from jealousy. The enlargement has added, to 
be sure, several clever pictures, and is one of the most successful 
revisions ever made of a great poem. Still many will be found to agree 
with Addison and with Mr. Croker, a well-known critic of Pope, who 
says : " The original poem tells the actual story and exhibits a picture 
of real manners with so much wit and poetry, but also with so much 
simplicity and clearness, that I can well imagine that Addison might be 
alarmed at the proposition of introducing sylphs and gnomes into a 
scene of common life already so admirably described. Even now, with 
the advantage of seeing all the brilliancy with which Pope has worked 
out what Addison thought an unfortunate conception, I will not deny 
that such is the charm of truth that I have lately read the first sketch 
with more interest than its more fanciful and more gorgeous successor, 
which really seems something like a beauty oppressed with the weight 
and splendor of her ornaments." 

Indeed, we believe that this shorter form of the poem will prove in 
many ways more suitable to the needs of the student than its longer, 
more difficult, more fantastic, and sometimes somewhat wearisome 
revision. He must remember, however, that this shorter edition, 
though furnishing an excellent example of Pope at his best, is not what 
is now ordinarily called The Rape of the Lock. Should he wish to study 
the whole poem, he will do well to compare this earlier with the 
enlarged form, to be found in any collection of its author's works. He 
will notice that three or four lines were omitted in the revision ; a dozen 
or so recast and considerably changed ; some thirty or forty very 
slightly altered, often in only a single word ; and about four hundred 
and sixty added, principally in the introduction of such " machinery " 
as the Sylphs, the game of Ombre, and the Cave of Spleen. These 
changes may be summarized as follows, no account being made of 
merely verbal or minor changes : — 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK II5 

Final edition Contains of the 

Canto. No. 0/ lines earlier edition A?id adds 

I . . . . 148 Canto I, 11. 1-18 — the description of the Sylphs and of 

Belinda's toilet. 

II . . . 142 Canto I, 11. 19-64 — the plans of the Sylphs. 

III . . . 178 Canto I, 11. 65-142 — the game of Ombre. 

IV . . . 176 Canto II, 11. 143-231 — the Gnomes and the Cave of Spleen. 

V . . 150 Canto II, 11. 232-334 — the Speech of Clarissa.i 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 

AN HEROI-COMICAL POEM 
[original EDITION OF I712] 

Nolueram, BeVmda, tuos violare capillos, 
Sedjuvat hoc prcecibus me tribuisse ttiis. 

— Martial's Epigrams : Lib. XII, Ep. 84. 

CANTO I 

What dire offence from am 'reus causes springs, 

What mighty quarrels rise from trivial things, 

I sing. This verse to C — l, Muse ! is due ; 

This, ev'n Belinda may vouchsafe to view ; 

Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, 5 

If She inspire, and He approve my lays. 

Say what strange motive. Goddess ! could compel 
A well-bred Lord t' assault a gentle Belle? 
O say what stranger cause, yet unexplor'd, 
Cou'd make a gentle Belle reject a Lord? 10 

And dwells such rage in softest bosoms then. 
And lodge such daring souls in little men? 

Sol thro' white curtains did his beams display. 
And op'd those eyes which brighter shine than they, 
Shock just had giv'n himself the rousing shake, 15 

1 First introduced into the quarto edition of 1717. Canto V, of the edition of 
1714, save for a few lines relating to the Sylphs, was practically identical with the 
last hundred lines of the first edition. The final edition, as it now stands, contains 
seven hundred and ninety-four lines. 



Il6 POPE 

And nymphs prepar'd their chocolate to take ; 

Thrice the wrought sUpper knocked against the ground, 

And striking watches the tenth hour resound. 

Behnda rose, and midst attending dames, 

Lanch'd on the bosom of the Silver Thames : 20 

A train of well-drest youths around her shone, 

And ev'ry eye was fix'd on her alone. 

On her white breast a sparkling Cross she wore, 

Which Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore. 

Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, 25 

Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those. 

Favours to none, to all she smiles extends ; 

Oft' she rejects, but never once offends. 

Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, 

And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 30 

Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride. 

Might hide her faults, if Belles had faults to hide ; 

If to her share some female errors fall. 

Look on her face, and you'll forgive 'em all. 

This Nymph, to the destruction of mankind, 35 

Nourish'd two Locks, which graceful hung behind 
In equal curls, and well conspir'd to deck 
With shining ringlets her smooth iv'ry neck. 
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, 
And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. 40 

With hairy sprindges we the birds betray. 
Slight lines of hair surprize the finny prey. 
Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare. 
And beauty draws us with a single hair. 

Th' advent'rous Baron the bright locks admir'd ; 45 

He saw, he wish'd, and to the prize aspir'd. 
Resolv'd to win, he meditates the way, 
By force to ravish, or by fraud betray ; 
For when success a Lover's toil attends, 
Few ask if fraud or force attain'd his ends. 50 

For this, e'er Phoebus rose, he had implor'd 
Propitious heav'n, and ev'ry pow'r ador'd, 
But chiefly Love — to Love an Altar built 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 11/ 

Of twelve vast French Romances, neatly gilt. 

There lay the sword-knot Sylvia's hands had sewn, 55 

With Flavia's busk that oft had wrapped his own : 

A fan, a garter, half a pair of gloves, 

And all the trophies of his former loves. 

With tender Billets-doux he lights the pyre, 

And breathes three am'rous sighs to raise the fire. 60 

Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes 

Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize : 

The pow'rs gave ear, and granted half his pray'r ; 

The rest the winds dispers'd in empty air. 

Close by those meads, for ever crown'd with flow'rs, 65 

Where Thames with pride surveys his rising tow'rs, 
There stands a structure of majestic frame, 
Which from the neighb'ring Hampton takes its name. 
Here Britain's statesmen oft' the fall foredoom 
Of foreign Tyrants and of Nymphs at home ; 70 

Here thou, great Anna ! whom three realms obey. 
Dost sometimes counsel take — and sometimes Tea. 

Hither our nymphs and heroes did resort, 
To taste a while the pleasures of a Court : 
In various talk the cheerful hours they past, 75 

Of who was bit, or who capotted last : 
This speaks the glory of the British Queen, 
And that describes a charming Indian screen ; 
A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes; 
At ev'ry word a reputation dies. 80 

Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, 
With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. 

Now when, declining from the noon of day, 
The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray ; 
When hungry Judges soon the sentence sign, 85 

And wretches hang that jury-men may dine ; 
When merchants from th' Exchange return in peace. 
And the long labours of the Toilet cease. 
The board's with cups and spoons, alternate, crown'd. 
The berries crackle, and the mill turns round ; 90 

On shining Altars of Japan they raise 



Il8 POPE 

The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze ; 

From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, 

While China's earth receives the smoking tyde. 

At once they gratify their smell and taste, 95 

While frequent cups prolong the rich repaste. 

Coffee (which makes the politician wise. 

And see thro' all things with his half-shut eyes) 

Sent up in vapours to the Baron's brain 

New Stratagems, the radiant Lock to gain. 100 

Ah cease, rash youth ! desist e'er 'tis too late, 

Fear the just Gods, and think of Scylla's Fate ! 

Chang'd to a bird, and sent to flit in air, 

She dearly pays for Nisus' injur'd hair ! 

But when to mischief mortals bend their mind, 105 

How soon fit instruments of ill they find ! 
Just then Clarissa drew with tempting grace 
A two-edg'd weapon from her shining case : 
So Ladies, in Romance, assist their Knight, 
Present the spear, and arm him for the fight. no 

He takes the gift with rev'rence, and extends 
The little engine on his fingers' ends ; 
This just behind Belinda's neck he spread. 
As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. 
He first expands the glitt'ring Forfex wide 115 

T' inclose the Lock, now joins it to divide ; 
One fatal stroke the sacred hair does sever 
From the fair head, for ever and for ever ! 

The living fires come flashing from her eyes, 
And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies. 120 

Not louder shrieks by dames to heav'n are cast. 
When husbands die, or lapdogs breathe their last j 
Or when rich China vessels, fal'n from high, 
In glitt'ring dust and painted fragments lie ! 

" Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine," 125 

The victor cry'd ; " the glorious Prize is mine ! 
While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, 
Or in a coach and six the British Fair, 
As long as Atalantis shall be read, 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 119 

Or the small pillow grace a Lady's bed, 130 

While visits shall be paid on solemn days, 

When num'rous waxhghts in bright order blaze, 

While nymphs take treats, or assignations give. 

So long my honour, name, and praise shall Hve ! 

What Time wou'd spare, from Steel receives its date, 135 

And monuments, like men, submit to Fate ! 

Steel did the labour of the Gods destroy. 

And strike to dust th' aspiring tow'rs of Troy ; 

Steel could the works of mortal pride confound, 

And hew triumphal arches to the ground. 140 

What wonder then, fair nymph ! thy hairs should feel 

The conqu'ring force of unresisted steel ! " 

CANTO II 

But anxious cares the pensive nymph opprest. 

And secret passions labour'd in her breast. 

Not youthful kings in battel seiz'd ahve, 145 

Not scornful virgins who their charms survive, 

Not ardent lover robb'd of all his bliss. 

Not ancient lady when refus'd a kiss. 

Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die, 

Not Cynthia when her manteau's pinn'd awry, 150 

E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, 

As thou, sad Virgin ! for thy ravish'd Hair. 

While her rack'd soul repose and peace requires. 

The fierce Thalestris fans the rising fires. 

" O wretched maid ! " she spread her hands, and cry'd, 155 

(And Hampton's ecchoes " Wretch'd maid ! " reply'd) 

" Was it for this you took such constant care 

Combs, bodkins, leads, pomatums to prepare? 

For this your locks in paper durance bound? 

For this with tort'ring irons wreath'd around? 160 

Oh had the youth been but content to seize 

Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these ! 

Gods ! shall the ravisher display this hair. 

While the Fops envy, and the Ladies stare ! 

Honour forbid ! at whose unrivall'd shrine 165 



1 20 porE 

Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign. 

Methinks already I your tears survey, 

Already hear the horrid things they say, 

Already see you a degraded toast. 

And all your honour in a whisper lost ! 170 

How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend? 

'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend ! 

And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize, 

Expos'd through crystal to the gazing eyes, 

And heighten'd by the diamond's circling rays, 175 

On that rapacious hand for ever blaze? 

Sooner shall grass in Hyde-park Circus grow, 

And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow ; 

Sooner let earth, air, sea, to Chaos fall. 

Men, monkeys, lapdogs, parrots, perish all ! " 180 

She said ; then raging to Sir Plume repairs. 
And bids her Beau demand the precious hairs : 
Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain. 
And the nice conduct of a clouded cane. 
With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, 183 

He first the snuff-box open'd, then the case. 
And thus broke out — " My Lord ! why, what the devil ! 
Zounds ! damn the lock ! 'fore Gad, you must be civil ! 
Plague on't ! 'tis past a jest — nay, prithee, pox ! 
Give her the hair " — he spoke, and rapp'd his box. 190 

" It grieves me much," reply'd the Peer again, 
" Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain ; 
But by this lock, this sacred lock, I swear, 
(Which never more shall join its parted hair ; 
Which never more its honours shall renew, 195 

Clip'd from the lovely head where once it grew) 
That, while my nostrils draw the vital air. 
This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear." 
He spoke ; and speaking, in proud triumph spread 
The long-contended honours of her head. 200 

But see ! the nymph in sorrow's pomp appears. 
Her eyes half-languishing, half drovvn'd in tears ; 
Now livid pale her cheeks, now glowing red. 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK I2I 

On her heav'd bosom hung her drooping head, 

Which, with a sigh, she rais'd ; and thus she said : 205 

" For ever curs'd be this detested day, 
Which snatch'd my best, my fav'rite curl away ! 
Happy ! ah ten times happy had I been, 
If Hampton-Court these eyes had never seen ! 
Yet am not I the first mistaken maid, 210 

By love of Courts to num'rous ills betray'd. 
Oh had I rather un-admir'd remain'd 
In some lone isle, or distant Northern land, 
Where the gilt Chariot never marks the way, 
Where none learn Ombre, none e'er taste Bohea ! 215 

There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye. 
Like roses, that in desarts bloom and die. 
What mov'd my mind with youthful Lords to rome? 
Oh had I stay'd, and said my pray'rs at home ! 
'Twas this the morning omens did fortell ; 220 

Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell ; 
The tott'ring China shook without a wind ; 
Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind ! 
See the poor remnants of this slighted hair ! 
My hands shall rend what ev'n thy own did spare : 225 

This, in two sable ringlets taught to break, 
Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck ; 
The sister lock now sits uncouth, alone. 
And in its fellow's fate foresees its own ; 
Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal sheers demands, 230 

And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands." 

She said ; the pitying audience melt in tears ; 
But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the Baron's ears. 
In vain Thalestris with reproach assails ; 
For who can move when fair Belmda fails? 235 

Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain, 
While Anna begg'd and Dido rag'd in vain. 
*' To arms, to arms ! " the bold Thalestris cries, 
And swift as lightning to the combate flies. 
All side in parties, and begin th' attack ; 240 

Fans clap, silks russle, and tough whalebones crack ; 



122 POPE 

Heroes' and Heroins' shouts confus'dly rise, 

And base and treble voices strike the skies. 

No common weapons in their hands are found ; 

Like Gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. 245 

So when bold Homer makes the Gods engage, 
And heav'nly breasts with human passions rage ; 
'Gainst Pallas, Mars ; Latona, Hermes arms ; 
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms ; 
Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around ; 250 

Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound ; 
Earth shakes her nodding tovv'rs, the ground gives way, 
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day ! 

While thro' the press enrag'd Thalestris flies, 
And scatters death around from both her eyes, 255 

A Beau and Witling perish'd in the throng ; 
One dy'd in metaphor, and one in song. 
" O cruel nymph ! a living death I bear," 
Cry'd Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. 
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast : 260 

"Those eyes are made so killing " — was his last. 
Thus on Maeander's flow'ry margin Hes 
Th' expiring Swan, and as he sings he dies. 

As bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, 
Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown ; 265 

She smil'd to see the doughty hero "slain, 
But at her smile the Beau reviv'd again. 

Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air. 
Weighs the Men's wits against the lady's Hair. 
The doubtful beam long nods from side to side ; 270 

At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside. 

See, fierce Belinda on the Baron flies. 
With more than usual lightning in her eyes; 
Nor fear'd the Chief th' unequal fight to try, 
Who sought no more than on his foe to die. 275 

But this bold Lord, with manly strength endu'd, 
She with one finger and a thumb subdu'd : 
Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, 
A charge of Snuff the wily Virgin threw ; 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 1 23 

Sudden with starting tears each eye o'erflows, 280 

And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. 

" Now meet thy fate," th' incens'd virago cry'd, 
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. 

"Boast not my fall," he said, "insulting foe ! 
Thou by some other shalt be laid as low ; 285 

Nor think to die dejects my lofty mind; 
All that I dread is leaving you behind ! 
Rather than so, ah let me still survive. 
And still burn on in Cupid's flames, — alive." 

" Restore the Lock ! " she cries ; and all around 290 

" Restore the Lock ! " the vaulted roofs rebound. 
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain 
Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain. 
But see how oft' ambitious aims are cross'd. 
And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost ! 295 

The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain, 
In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain : 
With such a prize no mortal must be blest, 
So heav'n decrees ! with heav'n who can contest? 

Some thought it mounted to the Lunar sphere, 300 

Since all that man e'er lost is treasur'd there. 
There Heroes' wits are kept in pondrous vases. 
And Beaus' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases. 
There broken vows and death-bed alms are found. 
And lovers's hearts with ends of riband bound, 305 

The courtier's promises, and sick man's pray'rs, 
The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs. 
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoak a flea, 
Dry'd butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. 

But trust the Muse — she saw it upward rise, 310 

Tho' mark'd by none but quick poetic eyes ; 
(Thus Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew, 
To Proculus alone confess'd in view.) 
A sudden Star, it shot thro' liquid air. 

And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. 315 

Not Berenice's Locks first rose so bright. 
The skies bespangling with dishevel'd light. 



124 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

This the Beau monde shall from the Mall survey, 
As through the moonlight shade they nightly stray, 
And hail with music its propitious ray ; 320 

This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies. 
When next he looks thro' GaHlreo's eyes ; 
And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom 
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. 

Then cease, bright Nymph ! to mourn thy ravish'd hair, 325 
Which adds new glory to the shining sphere ! 
Not all the tresses that fair head can boast, 
Shall draw such envy as the Lock you lost : 
For after all the murders of your eye, 

When, after millions slain, your self shall die ; 330 

When those fair suns shall set, as set they must. 
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust, 
This Lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame. 
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. 



2. TFIE MOVEMENT OF REACTION 

Although the mention of eighteenth-century English poetry is gener- 
ally suggestive of the conventional school of Pope and Johnson, it must 
be noted that, contemporaneous with this school, almost from the very 
beginning of the century, there was proceeding another literary move- 
ment, destined in time to bring about a revolution in English letters as 
great as that which had resulted in the ascendency of the Classical 
school. This movement was fostered by a few poets, who, consciously 
or unconsciously, could not or would not be bound by the tenets of 
this school. Some of these poets discarded the heroic couplet and 
reverted to the verse forms as well as the poetic ideals of earlier English 
and North-European poetry ; some, indeed, to the inspiration of theancient 
classics. Others clung to the couplet and no doubt imagined that they 
were wholly in accord with the conventionalists, although their poetic 
sympathies were such as could never be satisfied with the ideals of 
Pope and his disciples. Passion, imagination, love of nature, — all of 
■which had fallen into disrepute, — little by little reasserted themselves 
in the works of such writers ; and thus very slowly, indefinitely, almost 
imperceptibly at first, the new poetry arose. For a new poetry it was, 
although, until the time of Burns, it was, to a large degree, held in 
check by the dominant authority of the other school. 



THE MOVEMENT OF REACTION 125 

The course of this movement in the history of eighteenth-century 
letters may be indicated by a brief mention of some of the more im- 
portant poets concerned. The first to attain to any prominence was 
a Scotchman, james Thomson (i 700-1 748). Of him Saintsbury 
says in his History of English Poetry : "Thomson's poetical works are 
among the most important in the history of English poetry, although 
they cannot be exactly ranked among the best of English poems. Ap- 
pearing as they did at the very same time with the most perfect and 
polished work of Pope, they served as an antidote to that great writer's 
' town ' poetry. Couched as the best of them were in blank verse, or in 
the Spenserian stanza, they showed a bold front to the insolent domi- 
nation of the stopped couplet." Thomson's Seasons (1726- 1730), 
although written largely in the formal, rhetorical language of the 
Classical school, nevertheless differs widely from that school in show- 
ing an "honest understanding " and sincere love of nature. Equally 
important as an influence in the new direction was the work of thomas 
GRAY. It is true that his poems are by no means free from the coldness 
and artificiality of the age ; yet his gentle sympathy with man and 
nature, together with his ripe scholarship and intimate acquaintance 
with the best in the poetry of other lands, contributed to make him an 
inspirer of the new poetry rather than a confirmer of the old. As 
Stopford Brooke has said : " He stands clear and bright on the ridge 
between the old and the new. Having ascended through the old poetry, 
he saw the new landscape of song below him, felt its fresher air, and sent 
his own power into the men who arose after him." With Gray closes 
what may be regarded as the first period of the reactionary movement. 

The opening of its second period is marked by three matters of 
import : first, the comparative barrenness of poetic achievement during 
the third quarter of the century ; second, the renewal of interest in the 
romance of past ages, as evidenced by the successful publication of 
Bishop Percy's Reliques of Ancient Poetry; and third, the literary dic- 
tatorship of Dr. Johnson, an ardent follower of Pope and a zealous 
advocate of the ideals of the Classical school. The conservatism of 
Johnson undoubtedly had much influence over the work of his intimate 
friend and companion, Oliver goldsmith. Indeed, Goldsmith is often 
classed among the conventional poets of the century. No doubt he 
tried to meet the requirements of the conventional school ; no doubt 
he wrote some poems with a purpose as consciously didactic as was 
ever that of Pope. But the spirit of the artist was more potent than 
the purpose of the artificer; and, in spite of his heroic couplets and 
attempts at moralizing, in spite of Dr. Johnson and of his own adherence 
to conventional poetic theories. Goldsmith's truer instincts place him 
among the poets of the newer school. 



126 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

During the latter years of this period of reaction the last taper of the 
conventional school flickered and went out. George ckabbe (1754- 
1832) and WILLIAM cowPER (1731-1800), like Goldsmith, both counted 
themselves of the tribe of Pope. Both used the regulation couplet ; 
both tried to write in the regulation manner. But the sincere and 
realistic products of the Muse demonstrated the futility of dinging to 
a style from which the soul had escaped. Finally Robert burns, in his 
matchless songs, gave voice to strains such as for simplicity and sweet- 
ness had not been heard since the best days of the Elizabethans. Even 
he, when he exchanged his native dialect for literary English, at times 
showed curious traces of the earlier school ; but, on the whole, the 
diiferences between Pope, who opened the century, and Burns, who 
closed it, were nearly world-wide. The forces of reaction had com- 
pleted their work, and England was ready for the new Romantic school. 

THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771) 

The quiet, sober-minded Thomas Gray is frequently classed with 
Milton among the most scholarly of English poets. Gray's life was 
given almost entirely to self-culture. Probably no other man of his 
time in all Europe was so well read in modern literature, while few had 
a more intimate knowledge of the classics. As a result of this wide 
range of reading, he had developed a critical insight that might have 
contributed much to making him a great poet ; but in Gray the creative 
impulse was largely lacking. If, like Pope or Wordsworth or Tennyson, 
he had resolutely confined himself to writing poetry, his rank as a poet 
would doubtless have been far higher than it is. His mind was clear 
and searching, his taste refined — almost fastidious, his power of 
expression of extraordinary fitness and finish. Though of no great 
imagination or originality, he was one of the first to achieve at least a 
partial emancipation from the thraldom of the Classical school. In spite 
of his talents, however, he is a poet only of the presentative or reflective 
class ; yet one whom the world will never forget as the author of the 
Elegy — a production of sentiment dignified and temperate rather than 
profound, yet so wide in its appeal and so nearly perfect in expression that 
it is perhaps the best known and best loved poem in the English language. 

1716-1741. — Gray was born in London in December, 1716. His 
father, though a man of some wealth, was extravagant, intemperate, and 
cruelly indifferent to his family. Hence the nurture and education of 
the youth were entirely devolved upon the mother. Young Gray became 
a pupil in Eton, where his mother's brother was a teacher, and thence he 
proceeded to Cambridge, which he entered at the age of eighteen. Four 
years later he left the university without taking a degree, and with 



THOMAS GRAY I27 

Horace Walpole, a fellow-student at both Eton and Cambridge, began a 
tour of the Continent which lasted till 1741. 

1741-1754. — Gray's father died in 1741, after having squandered 
nearly all his fortune. Accordingly the next year the poet's mother 
moved to the home of her widowed sister, at the village of Stoke Pogis, 
in southern Buckinghamshire, and was soon joined by her son. Here 
Gray wrote his first English poems, the Ode to Springs the Eton College 
ode, and the beginnings of the Elegy Written hi a Country Churchyard, 
the latter probably suggested by the churchyard near his new home in 
Stoke Pogis. During the winter of this same year, 1742, he returned to 
Cambridge, took the degree of Bachelor of Civil Law, and settled 
down to a dreamy life of study in the libraries of the university, varied 
only by vacation visits to his mother, and occasional trips abroad. In 
1747 his Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College was published, but 
it met with little favor. The Elegy, on which he had been working at 
intervals since 1742, appeared in 1750. Three years later his mother 
died, and he became more than ever the solitary recluse of the 
Cambridge libraries. 

1 754-1 77 1. — From 1754 to 1757 Gray produced some few short 
poems, among them his well-known Pindaric Odes (see introduction). 
In 1757 he was offered the laureateship, an honor which he refused. 
Not long after this he began to write translations and imitations of 
the poetry of the Celts and the Norsemen, — translations which had 
a decided influence in the development of the new Romantic move- 
ment. The remaining years of his life were even more uneventful than 
those which had preceded. In 1768 he was given the professorship of 
Modern History and Modern Languages at Cambridge, but he never 
delivered a lecture. In 1771 the "shy, sensitive, secluded scholar" 
died, and was buried beside his mother in the " country churchyard " 
of Stoke Pogis. 

According to Gray's own statement, he aimed at a style with " extreme 
conciseness of expression, yet pure, perspicuous, and musical." In this he 
has succeeded so admirably that almost any one of his few poems is well 
worth the readers acquaintance. On the whole, the most enjoyable are 
probably his simpler " odes," such as that on Eton College and the 
famous Elegy which follows. The romantic quality which these poems 
show is manifest not merely in the breaking away from the heroic couplet, 
but in the poet's sympathy with low-born and natural life, simple emo- 
tions, and homely scenes. 



128 GRAY 



ELEGY 

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 
The plowman homeward plods his weary way. 

And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5 

And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; 

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, 

The moping owl does to the moon complain 10 

Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r. 

Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. 
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 15 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 20 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. 

Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
No children run to lisp their sire's return, 

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 

How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 

How bovv'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 



ELEGY 129 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 30 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 

The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await alike th' inevitable hour. 35 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault. 
If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault 

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 40 

Can storied urn, or animated bust. 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 

Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust. 
Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of Death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre. 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 50 

Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage. 

And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear : 
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 55 

And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village-Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 

The Httle Tyrant of his fields withstood, 
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. 

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 60 



I30 G/^AV 

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbad : nor circumscrib'd alone 65 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd ; 

Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. 

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 70 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. 

Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray ; 
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 75 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 
With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd. 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 80 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
And many a holy text around she strews. 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 85 

This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, 
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 

Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies ; 

Some pious drops the closing eye requires : 90 

Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries ; 

Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. 



ELEGY 131 

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead 

Dost in these Unes their artless tales relate ; 
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 95 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate. 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 100 

" There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch. 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 105 

Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove ; 

Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn. 
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 

" One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill. 

Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree ; no 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill. 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 

" The next, with dirges due in sad array. 

Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him born. — 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 115 

Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, 

A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown : 
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 

And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 120 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 

Heav'n did a recompense as largely send : 
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear, 

He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. 



132 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 125 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH (i 728-1 774) 

Oliver Goldsmith, if not the greatest, is at least the most versatile 
and pleasing writer of the eighteenth century. Whether as essay writer 
or dramatist, poet or novelist, he put his hand to nothing that he did 
not impress with a certain indefinable charm. Of critical faculty or 
accurate knowledge, he had almost nothing, nor was he by any means 
a deep thinker. Yet he was easy, simple, and natural ; and, as Irving 
suggests, he identified himself with his writings in such a way as to 
make us " love the man at the same time that we admire the author." 
His style has been well characterized as full of " humanity and grace, 
of simplicity and picturesque sweetness." His life was a singular 
mixture of comedy and pathos, and has always been a favorite theme 
of essayist and biographer. We can give here only the briefest outline. 

1728-1752. — Goldsmith was born in 1728, in Pallas, a small Irish 
village where his father was a poor Protestant clergyman. Two years 
later the family moved to the village of Lissoy, and here the boy 
received his early schooling, some reflection of which we find in The 
Deserted Village. At the age of seventeen he entered Trinity College, 
Dublin, as a sizar, or charity student. He seems to have been shiftless 
at college, but was finally graduated at the age of twenty-one, the lowest 
in his class. The next three years he spent ostensibly in preparation 
for holy orders, but really in idleness. 

1 752-1 759. — Goldsmith's uncle, who had helped him through college, 
now gave him fifty pounds with which to enter upon the study of law 
in London ; but Oliver proceeded in this career no farther than Dublin, 
where he gambled away his money in a single night. The uncle again 
to the rescue, Oliver then tried his hand at medicine, and spent two 
years at Edinburgh, afterwards two more strolling from university to uni- 
versity on the continent, in pursuit of a warrant to practise. Finally, 
somewhere in Italy, he succeeded in capturing a medical degree, — at 
least so he claims, — and he was thereafter " Dr. Goldsmith." We now 
see Goldsmith, at the age of twenty-eight, back from his travels and trying 
in every conceivable way to make a living, — as apothecary's assistant, 
as tutor in a school, and, finally, as hack reviewer for a bookseller. 
Thus his energies were at last directed into their proper channel, for, 
incidentally to his hack-work, he succeeded in writing, and getting a 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE I33 

publisher for, his Enquiry mto the State of Polite Learning in 
Etirope. With this naively pretentious essay, about a subject of which 
he knew next to nothing, his career as an author commenced. 

1759-1774. — During the later years of his life, amid any quantity of 
literary drudgery, — a History of England, a History of Animated Na- 
ture, and the like, — he found time to produce several works which were 
real literature, — some genial and sprightly essays, two very good poems 
beside other worthy bits of verse, two comedies which still stir the 
world with laughter and delight, and an idyllic romance whose charm 
can never grow old. He was an honored member of the famous literary 
club of Dr. Johnson and his friends. He earned at times considerable 
sums of money, but through personal extravagance and reckless gen- 
erosity he was constantly in debt. Yet he was never so poor but that 
he would lend his last penny to some Irish relative poorer still. His 
affectionate and confiding nature, his simple-heartedness and sunny dis- 
position, won and kept for him a host of friends. It is pleasant to 
contemplate this shy, awkward, pock-marked, improvident Irishman, 
winning his way to the hearts of London's greatest literary men. He im- 
pressed himself upon others not by presumption or by assertive wit, but 
by a humor which widened sympathy while it wakened laughter. His 
literary style, like his personality, was irresistible, because its charm was 
natural. He was in the estimation of his friends, as Dr. Johnson said, 
"a very great man"; and when he died, in 1774, at the early age of 
forty-five, the grief of Johnson, Burke, Reynolds, and the rest was very 
deep and sincere. 

The student who takes up the reading of Goldsmith's works will soon 
find that he has entered upon what is not a task, but a delight. In both 
verse and prose he is a most important figure in the transition from the 
later Classical school to the new Romantic of the nineteenth century. 
The Traveller (1764) for reflective poetry. The Vicar of IVakefeld {ij66) 
for the story, and She Stoops to Conquer (1773) for the drama, are 
representative works which all should read. But the most popular of 
his writings is undoubtedly The Deserted Village. It is also the most 
painstaking and artistic of his poems, and therefore deserves especial 
attention. 

THE DESERTED VILLAGE 

Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain ; 

Where health and plenty cheared the labouring swain, 

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 

And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed : 



134 GOLDSMITH 

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 5 

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 

How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 

Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! 

How often have I paused on every charm, 

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 10 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill. 

The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 

For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 

How often have I blest the coming day, 15 

When toil remitting lent its turn to play. 

And all the village train, from labour free. 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree. 

While many a pastime circled in the shade. 

The young contending as the old surveyed ; ao 

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, 

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. 

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired. 

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; 

The dancing pair that simply sought renown 25 

By holding out to tire each other down ; 

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face. 

While secret laughter tittered round the place ; 

The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love. 

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. 30 

These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these. 

With sweet succession, taught even toil to please : 

These round thy bowers their chearful influence shed : 

These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. 

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 35 

Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain. 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 40 

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 
But, choaked with sedges, works its weedy way ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 135 

Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 

The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest ; 

Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 45 

And tires their ecchoes with unvaried cries : 

Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. 

And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; 

And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 

Far, far away thy children leave the land. 50 

111 fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade — 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made — 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 55 

When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
When every rood of ground maintained its man : 
For him light labour spread her wholesome store, 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; 60 

His best companions, innocence and health, 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are altered ; trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 65 

Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, 
And every want to opulence allied. 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires that asked but little room, 70 

Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, 
Lived in each look, and brightened all the green, — 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn 1 parent of the blissful hour, 75 

Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds 
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds. 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 80 



136 GOLDSMITH 

Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 85 

Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose : 
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, 90 

Around my fire an evening groupe to draw. 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue 
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,_ 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 95 

Here to return — and die at home at last, 

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline. 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine ! 
How happy he who crowns, in shades like these, 
A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 100 

Who quits a world where strong temptations try. 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep. 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
No surly porter stands in guilty state, 105 

To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
Angels around befriending Virtue's friend ; 
Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way ; no 

And, all his prospects brightening to the last. 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. 
There as I past with careless steps and slow, 115 

The mingling notes came softened from below : 
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung. 
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE ^ 137 

The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 

The playful children just let loose from school, 120 

The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, 

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, — 

These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 

And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 

But now the sounds of population fail, 125 

No chearful murmurs fluctuate in the gale. 

No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, 

For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 

All but yon widowed, solitary thing. 

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 130 

She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread. 

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 

To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn. 

To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; 

She only left of all the harmless train, 135 

The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
And still where many a garden flower grows wild. 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 140 

A man he was to all the country dear, 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year : 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place : 
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power 145 

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize. 
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
He chid their wanderings but relieved their pain : 150 

The long remembered beggar was his guest. 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 155 

Sat by his fire, and talked the night away. 



138 GOLDSMITH 

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shouldered his crutch and shewed how fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 160 

Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side; 
But in his duty prompt at every call, 165 

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 170 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed. 
The reverend champion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 175 

And his last faultering accents whispered praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace. 
His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway. 
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 180 

The service past, around the pious man, 
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
Even children followed with endearing wile, 
And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile : 
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest ; 185 

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest : 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given. 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 190 

Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 1 39 

There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 195 

The village master taught his little school. 

A man severe he was, and stern to view; 

I knew him well, and every truant knew : 

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 

The day's disasters in his morning face ; 200 

Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 

Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned ; 

Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 205 

The love he bore to learning was in fault. 

The village all declared how much he knew : 

'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too ; 

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 

And even the story ran that he could gauge. 210 

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, 

For, even tho' vanquished, he could argue still ; 

While words of learned length and thundering sound 

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 215 

That one small head could carry all he knew. 

But past is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. 
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high. 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 220 

Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, 
Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired. 
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 225 

The parlour splendours of that festive place : 
The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door ; 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 230 

The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 



I40 GOLDSMITH 

The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, 

With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay ; 

While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for shew, 235 

Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 

Vain transitory splendours ! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. 240 

Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the wood-man's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 245 

Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear ; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 250 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art ; 
Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, 255 

The soul adopts, and owns their first born sway, 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, — 260 

In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy. 
The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 265 

The rich man's joys encrease, the poor's decay, 
Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and an happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore. 
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 270 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 141 

Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, 

And rich men flock from all the world around. 

Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name 

That leaves our useful products still the same. 

Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 275 

Takes up a space that many poor supplied, — 

Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 

Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : 

The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 

Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth ; 280 

His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 

Indignant spurns the cottage from the green : 

Around the world each needful product flies, 

For all the luxuries the world supplies ; 

While thus the land adorned for pleasure all 285 

In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female, unadorned and plain. 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 290 

But when those charms are past, for charms are frail. 
When time advances, and when lovers fail. 
She then shines forth, sollicitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress : 

Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed ; 295 

In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed. 
But verging to decline, its splendours rise. 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprize ; 
While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band, 300 

And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 
The country blooms — a garden and a grave. 

Where then, ah ! where, shall poverty reside, 
To scape the pressure of contiguous pride? 
If to some common's fenceless limits strayed 305 

He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide. 
And even the bare-worn common is denied. 



142 GOLDSMITH 

If to the city sped — what waits him there? 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 310 

To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
To see those joys the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, 315 

There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display. 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign 
Here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous train : 320 

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
Sure these denote one universal joy ! 

Are these thy serious thoughts? — Ah, turn thine eyes 325 
Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. 
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn : 330 

Now lost to all, — her friends, her virtue fled, — 
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head. 
And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower. 
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour 
When idly first, ambitious of the town, 335 

She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn, — thine, the loveliest train, — 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? 
Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 340 

Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex world intrudes between. 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go. 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
Far different there from all that charm'd before, 345 

The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 1 43 

Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 

And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 

Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing, 

But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 350 

Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned, 

Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 

Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 

The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 

Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 355 

And savage men more murderous still than they ; 

While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. 

Mingling the ravaged landschape with the skies. 

Far different these from every former scene. 

The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, 360 

The breezy covert of the warbling grove. 

That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day, 
That called them from their native walks away ; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 365 

Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last. 
And took a long farewel, and wished in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
And shuddering still to face the distant deep. 
Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. 370 

The good old sire the first prepared to go 
To new found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 375 

The fond companion of his helpless years, 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
And left a lover's for a father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. 
And blest the cot where every pleasure rose, 380 

And kist her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
And claspt them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 



144 GOLDSMITH 

O luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 385 

How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
Diffuse their pleasure only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
Boast of a florid vigour not their own. 390 

At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 
Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

Even now the devastation is begun, 395 

And half the business of destruction done ; 
Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail. 
That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 400 

Downward they move, a melancholy band. 
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
Contented toil, and hospitable care. 
And kind connubial tenderness, are there ; 
And piety with wishes placed above, 405 

And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 410 

Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried. 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 
Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, 415 

Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 
Farewell, and O ! where'er thy voice be tried, 
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, 
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, 
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 420 

Still let thy voice, prevailing over time. 
Redress the rigours of the inclement clime ; 



ROBERT BURNS I45 

Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 

Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 

Teach him, that states of native strength possest, 425 

Tho' very poor, may still be very blest ; 

That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 

As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away ; 

While self-dependent power can time defy. 

As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 430 

ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796) 

The greatest poet of Scotland, the most original of the eighteenth- 
century poets of Great Britain, one of the best song writers of the 
world, — these are epithets not too extravagant to apply to Robert Burns. 
Born to a most humble life, a poor country ploughboy, without the ad- 
vantages of education or of training in his art, he has nevertheless suc- 
ceeded beyond all but a few in touching the heart of mankind. He 
was born to be the poet of lyrical passion, to sing the joys and 
sorrows, the hopes and fears, the loves and yearnings and ambitions 
of the homely human nature which he knew and so well understood. 
Except in one or two poems his aim is not action or dramatic intensity ; 
and he displays little of the reflective quality and sustained imagination 
that also characterize the highest order of poets. He felt rather than 
thought ; he sang rather than philosophized. 

Tender and sympathetic toward all living things, he has a message 
for our hearts from the heart of Nature. Generous and impulsive, 
he carries us with him in his recital of experiences whether imaginary or 
real. And in Burns the experience is usually real. With a gay and 
lively humor he lends such zest to rural scenes, the Fair, the mirth of 
Hallowe'en, the pleasures of the village inn that, like his simple heroes, 
we live it all again. When once Burns had sung, no singer could be 
artificial and succeed. By the warmth of his lyrics he thawed " the 
eighteenth-century frost " of Pope and his followers. By his dialect 
poems he turned the broad, provincial Ayrshire into a national and 
literary tongue. Still, at the best, his was only a half life, with possi- 
bilities half realized. The early years were a struggle with harsh 
necessity ; the later, a struggle with dissipation and despair. Had his 
will power been as strong as his passions were deep, and his life as 
pure as his ideals high, it is impossible to surmise how successful both 
in life and letters he might have been. For his nature was at bottom 
both sensitive and reverent ; his religious feeling deep and sincere. 
Despite its blemishes and notwithstanding his own imperfections, — 



146 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

perhaps, after all because of the passion of them, — his poetry stands out 
honest, manly, and inspiring. 

1759-1786- — Burns was born in a small clay-built cottage on a little 
farm two miles south of the Scottish town of Ayr, and close to the old 
Alloway Kirk of his Tam o' Shanter. His father was an intelligent. 
God-fearing man, but very poor; and the lad's education was neces- 
sarily of the most fragmentary character. From his fourteenth to his 
twenty-fourth year, young Burns worked hard as the principal laborer 
on his father's farm. All this time, however, he was a great reader, 
devouring, among other things, the Spectator, Shakespeare, Pope, and 
the ballads of Scotland. These Scottish ballads seem early to have 
aroused a spirit of artistic emulation, and we soon hear of the young poet, 
as he guides his plough, fitting words of his own to ancient Scottish 
tunes. When about twenty-three years of age he went to a neighbor- 
ing town to learn the trade of flax-dressing ; and here were sown the 
seeds of the evil habits which did so much to ruin his later life. In 
1784 his father died ; and, with his brother, Robert rented a farm at Moss- 
giel, where many of his best poems were written, among others The 
Cotter's Saturday Night. But the farm proved a failure ; and the poet, 
wearied with that kind of life, and harassed by the consequences of his 
youthful follies, laid plans for emigrating to the West Indies. To 
secure money for the expenses of this voyage, he published, in 1786, 
a small volume of Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect. The result 
was entirely unexpected. Scotland was taken by storm ; and the poet 
was induced to pay a visit to Edinburgh, where he became the literary 
and social lion of the day. 

1786-1796. — Burns spent a winter at Edinburgh, partly in the 
cultivated circles of that great literary centre ; partly with rough and 
drunken companions at the taverns and social clubs of the city. With 
the proceeds of a second edition of his poems he took the lease of a 
farm at Ellisland in southern Scotland. Then he married Jean Armour, 
the most permanent of his many loves. This, the period in which Tatn 
o'' Shanter was written, was the happiest of his life ; but it was a period 
of very brief duration. In 1789 he secured a position as exciseman, 
that is, inspector of liquors and other goods liable to an internal reve- 
nue tax. His habits of intemperance were now becoming constantly 
worse, and from the day, in 1791, when he finally abandoned his farm 
for a residence in the neighboring town of Dumfries, his downfall was 
rapid. It is true that during periods of remorse and temporary reform 
he still continued to write immortal songs ; but his health had been 
shattered, and his spirits were broken. At last, in July, 1796, when 
only thirty-seven years old, the poet died. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 1 47 

The Cotter s Saturday Night and Tani o'' Shanter are probably the 
best, as they are certainly the most famous, of Burns's longer poems. 
The Tiva Dogs and The Brigs of Ayr are replete with humor and keen 
observation. The little poems, To a Mountain Daisy and To a Mouse, 
exquisitely express the poet's feeling for nature. But the best of his 
writings are unquestionably the songs,^ such as Bonnie Doon, Highland 
Mary, Flow Gently Sweet A/ton, A Red Red Rose, /s there for Honest 
Poverty, Scots IVha Hae wP Wallace Bled, and scores upon scores of 
others. It should be noted that, save a few stanzas of The Cotter'' s 
Saturday Night, all the poems mentioned above are in the Scottish 
dialect. Indeed, when the poet abandons his native dialect for literary 
English, he is frequently neither better nor worse than dozens of minor 
poets of the eighteenth century. But the student who wishes to read 
Burns need not fear the dialect ; for mere reading purposes, it is as 
easily mastered as it is charming in its effects. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ., OF AYR 

" Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely Joys, and destiny obscure ; 
Nor Grandeur hear, ivith a disdainful smile. 

The short and simple annals of the poor" — GRAY. 

My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend ! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise : 

To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 1 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 

The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 
What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 
Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; k 

The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose : 

1 See any collection of his works, or Gayley and Flaherty's Poetry of the People. 



148 BURNS 

The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, — 
This night his weekly moil is at an end, 15 

Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend. 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 20 

Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher thro' 

To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee. 

His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonily, 
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, 

The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 25 

Does a' his weary carking cares beguile. 
An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. 

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 30 

A cannie errand to a neebor town : 

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, 
In youthfu' bloom, — love sparkling in her e'e — 

Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown. 
Or d^posite her sair-won penny-fee, 35 

To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet. 

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 40 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 
Anticipation forward points the view. 

The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers. 
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 4S 

Their master's an' their mistress's command, 
The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 149 

An' mind their labors wi' an eydent hand, 

An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play ; 

" An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alvvay, 50 

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 

Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 
Liiplore His counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright ! " 

But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 55 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, an' convoy her hame. 

The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; 60 

Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name. 
While Jenny hafiiins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ; 

A strappan youth, he takes the mother's eye ; 65 

Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-ta'en ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 

The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy. 
But, blate an' laithfu', scarce can weel behave ; 

The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 70 

What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave, 
Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. * 

O, happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

O, heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 75 

And sage experience bids me this declare : — 

" If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare. 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale. So 

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale." 



I50 BUHNS 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 85 

Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembhng smooth ! 
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? 

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 
Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild ? 90 

But now the supper crowns their simple board, 
The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food ; 

The soupe their only havvkie does afford. 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood : 

The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 95 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell ; 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid : 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 100 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. 

The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : 

His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ; 105 

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide. 
He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And "Let us worship God ! " he says, with solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : no 

Perhaps " Dundee's " wild-warbling measures rise. 

Or plaintive " Martyrs," worthy of the name ; 

Or noble " Elgin " beets the heaven-ward flame, 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 

Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame; 115 

The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 151 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or Moses bade eternal vvarfere wage 120 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 

Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 

Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 125 

Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme : 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay His head ; 130 

How His first followers and servants sped ; 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land ; 

How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand. 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's com- 
mand. 13s 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," 

That thus they all shall meet in future days ; 

There, ever bask in uncreated rays, 140 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. 

Together hymning their Creator's praise. 
In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 145 

In all the pomp of method and of art. 
When men display to congregations wide 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 

The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert, 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 150 

But haply, in some cottage far apart. 



152 BUHNS 

May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul ; 
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 155 

The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 

That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. 

Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, 160 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

From scenes hke these, old Scotia's grandeur springs, 

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 165 

"An honest man's the noblest work of God ; " 

And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 
The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 

What is a lordHng's pomp ? a cumbrous load, 
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 170 

Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! 175 

And, O ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd isle. 180 

O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide. 

That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart ; 

Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 
Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art, 185 



TAM C SHANTER 



153 



His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 

Oh never, never, Scotia's realm desert, 
But still the patriot and the patriot-bard 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 

TAM O' SHANTER 

A TALE 

" Of Browtiyis and of Bogillis full is this Biike." 

— Gawin Douglas. 

When chapman billies leave the street, 

And drouthy neibors, neibors meet. 

As market days are wearing late. 

And folk begin to tak the gate ; 

While we sit bousin at the nappy, 5 

An' gettin fou and unco happy. 

We think na on the lang Scots miles, 

The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, 

That lie between us and our hame. 

Where sits our sulky, sullen dame, 10 

Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 

Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter : 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 15 

For honest men and bonie lasses). 

O Tam ! had'st thou but been sae wise. 

As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 

She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, 

A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 20 

That frae November till October, 

Ae market-day thou wasna sober; 

That ilka melder, wi' the miller. 

Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 



154 BURNS 

That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on 25 

The smith and thee gat roarin fou on ; 

That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 

Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. 

She prophesied that, late or soon, 

Thou wad be found deep drown'd in Doon, 30 

Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 

By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthen'd, sage advices, 35 

The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : — Ae market night, 
Tam had got planted unco right, 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 

Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; 40 

And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony : 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; 45 

And ay the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious : 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 50 

The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam didna mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
E'en drown'd himsel' amang the nappy : 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 55 

The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure ; 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! 



TAM O'SHANTER I 55 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ; 60 

Or like the snow-fall in the river, 
A moment white — then melts forever; 
Or like the boreaHs race, 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form, 65 

Evanishing amid the storm. — 
Nae man can tether time or tide ; 
The hour approaches Tam maun ride, — 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 70 

And sic a night he taks the road in, 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 75 

Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd : 
That night, a child might understand, 
The deil had business on his hand. 

Weel-mounted on his gray mear, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 80 

Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet. 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, 
Whiles glow'rin round wi' prudent cares, 85 

Lest bogles catch him unawares : 
Kirk-AUoway was drawing nigh, 
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry. 

By this time he was cross the ford. 
Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; 90 

And past the birks and meikle stane. 
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn. 
Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn : 



156 BURNS 

And near the thorn, aboon the well, 95 

Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'. — 

Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 

The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 

The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 

Near and more near the thunders roll : 100 

When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 

Kirk-Allovvay seem'd in a bleeze ; 

Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, 

And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 105 

What dangers thou canst make us scorn 1 
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquebae, we'll face the devil ! 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. no 

But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd. 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd. 
She ventur'd forward on the light ; 
And, wow ! Tam saw an unco sight ! 

Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 115 

Nae cotillion, brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A winnock-bunker in the east, 

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 120 

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gie them music was his charge ; 
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl. 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 

Coffins stood round, like open presses, 125 

That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantrip sleight 
Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 
By which heroic Tam was able 
To note upon the haly table, 130 



TAM O'SHANTER 



157 



A murderer's banes, in gibbet-aims ; 

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns ; 

A thief, nevv-cutted frae the rape, — 

Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 

Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted ; 135 

Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 

A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 

A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 

Whom his ain son of life bereft, — 

The gray-hairs yet stack to the heft ; 140 

Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'. 

Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 145 

The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 

Lowping an' flinging on a crummock, 161 

I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tarn kennt what was what fu' brawlie ; 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
That night enlisted in the core, 165 

Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ; 
(For mony a beast to dead she shot. 
And perish'd mony a bonie boat. 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country-side in fear) ; 170 

Her cutty- sark, o' Paisley harn, 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vauntie. — 
Ah ! Httle ken'd thy reverend grannie, 175 

That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), 
Wad ever grac'd a dance o' witches ! 



158 BUJ^NS 

But here my Muse her wing maun cour, — 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 180 

To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and Strang), 
And how Tam stood, hke ane bewitch 'd, 
And thought his very een enrich'd : 
Even Satan glovvr'd and fidg'd fu' fain, 185 

And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tam tint his reason a' thegither. 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark ! " 
And in an instant all was dark : 190 

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their byke ; 
As open pussie's mortal foes, 195 

When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market-crowd. 
When " Catch the thief ! " resounds aloud ; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' mony an eldritch skriech and hollow. 200 

Ah, Tam ! ah, Tam ! thou'll get thy fairin ! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 205 

And win the key-stane o' the brig : 
There, at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they darena cross ! 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 210 

For Nannie, far before the rest. 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 



TAM O'SHANTER 



159 



Ae spring brought off her master hale, 215 

But left behind her ain gray tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man, and mother's son, take heed : 220 

Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty-sarks rin in your mind. 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear ; 
Remember Tam o'Shanter's mear. 



CHAPTER VII 
THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
I. THE NEW ROMANTIC POETRY 

The new movement, though it had gained increasing force during the 
eighteenth century, was, to some extent, unconscious of its own aims, 
or, rather, unconscious of any conflict between itself and the older 
school. Up to the last decade of the century, poets like Cowper and 
Crabbe failed to realize that the spirit of their verse had broken entirely 
with the spirit of the verse of the earlier conventionalists. But with 
the publication of the Lyrical Ballads in 1798 the new movement at 
last came to an understanding, a realization, of its significance and aim ; 
and the triumph of Romantic poetry was complete. In that little book 
WORDSWORTH and COLERIDGE presented by the example of their 
poems a protest against the artificiality of Pope and his tribe. They 
raised a new standard for themselves and for those who were to follow. 

It must not be supposed that the Romantic revolution was accomplished 
in a day. Not only had it been preparing for nearly a hundred years : 
even when it arrived, its effects were so gradual as to be recognized at 
first by few. Other forms than the heroic couplet were more and more 
frequently adopted ; diction became simpler, feeling more spontaneous, 
images more natural. A new and larger range of poetic subjects was 
eagerly sought and found. An indiflference arose to canons of criticism 
hitherto held sacred. In the Classical school authority had reigned; 
now individuality became the watchword. Whatever men felt they 
wrote, and they wrote to please themselves and their readers. As a 
consequence, instead of the one traditional, universally approved style, 
artificial, because the conditions that produced it and the spirit that 
moved it were dead, as many styles arose as there were authors. And 
as a result there was now ushered in an activity of poetic creation second 
only to that of the Elizabethan age. 

We have said that the Lyrical Ballads of Coleridge and Wordsworth 
marked, the culmination of this Romantic movement, but that the far- 
reaching effects of the change were not realized at once. On the ap- 
pearance of Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel, however, in 1805, the 

160 



iVILLIAAf WORDSWORTH l6l 

charms of the new kind of poetry became apparent to everybody. It is 
undoubtedly true that the fame of sir Walter scott (i 771 -1832) as a 
poet is overshadowed by the success of his inimitable prose. Yet, 
historically, too much cannot be made of the fact that the extreme 
popularity of his metrical romances did more to turn — and speedily 
turn — the public taste in favor of the new poetry than any of the far 
more artistic verse of Wordsworth or Coleridge, Shelley or Keats. As 
a matter of fact, some of Scott's poetry reaches a very high level, ac- 
cording to the canons of its kind ; and if his work is uneven in its 
excellence and some of it rather commonplace, the same is no less 
true of Coleridge's and of Wordsworth's. The important thing for 
us to remember just here is that these three, — Wordsworth, Coleridge, 
and Scott, — at the beginning of the nineteenth century finally estab- 
lished a kind of poetry which, in one form or another, has since their 
time held sway. 

Scott was not a poet of the highest order, creative and interpretative 
in one. He described a vivid scene, told a good tale, and so stirred 
the fancy and the heart. He never presents the spectacle of his own 
emotion ; he rarely rises in his verse, though often in his novels, to the 
heights of ideal creation. He reproduces for us the picture of a whole- 
souled muscular Christianity. He is a representative poet of a very high 
order. He should certainly be included in a volume of this kind ; that 
The Lady of the Lake or the Lay does not appear here is due entirely 
to lack of space. 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (i 770-1 850) 

It is doubtless true that no other great English poet is so uneven in 
the quality of his productions as Wordsworth. Of the many hundreds 
of pages which he has written, perhaps scarcely more than a hundred 
can be regarded as poetry of the highest type. Yet that hundred is 
enough to insure his permanent esteem. Critics have, from his earhest 
appearance, widely diverged in their judgment of his rank ; but they 
are nowadays coming more and more to agree that he deserves to be 
placed, not indeed with Shakespeare and Milton, but with those who 
are either great creators or great seers, yet not both at once. He was 
an interpreter of life, as Chaucer and Spenser were creators of its liv- 
ing semblance. The marked inequality of his work was due very largely 
to his attempts to carry out his own famous " Theory of Poetry " as 
published in the second edition of the Lyrical Ballads, 1800. Two of 
his dogmas were : that poetic material may fitly be drawn from themes 
connected with the common life of the poor and lowly ; and that the 
language of poetry, that is to say, its words and its diction, should be 

M 



1 62 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 

selected from the language actually used by men. The first of these 
theories, although at the opposite pole from the teaching of Pope and 
other eighteenth-century poets of manners, was really not new, in view 
of the fact that Gray and Goldsmith, and particularly Crabbe and Burns, 
had already turned for their subjects to the everyday life of the com- 
mon people. But the second thesis was new, and was the rock on which 
both the theory and the practice of Wordsworth were nearly wrecked. 
His critics thought that he desired to limit poetry to the mean and 
vulgar speech of ignorant people, and they consequently derided his 
doctrine. But this was not what he had intended to teach. He was 
leading a revolt against the artificial and pompous diction of the 
Classical school, and was attempting to show that a "proper selection" 
from the language of common life would admit of such elevation of 
style and such figurative expression as naturally attend any passionate 
utterance, while it would by no means displease or disgust the reader 
by its familiarity. The theory is right as a protest against unnatural or 
inflated diction ; it is wrong only because it tries to limit poetry to a 
diction of any restricted kind. And when Wordsworth attempts to 
exemplify his doctrine he only too frequently sinks into a style which, 
while versified, was both prosaic and inane. He is, on the other hand, 
at his best when his poems show the widest possible departure from 
both of the theories mentioned above. 

Wordsworth was particularly the poet of reflection and philosophic 
thought. He had no humor nor dramatic power, and little passion or 
narrative skill. Yet his spiritual earnestness and sincerity are such 
that we are constantly reminded in his poems of his own definition of 
poetry, "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feeling." At his best 
he shows a union of the deepest feeling and the profoundest thought. 
Unlike Milton and Gray and Tennyson and Arnold, he was not pri- 
marily a scholar of books. The woods, the fields, and his rustic neigh- 
bors were his best library. His love for Nature was probably truer and 
more tender than that of any other English poet, before or since. He 
conceived of her as a living Being, and his love for her was something 
personal. In his musings on the harmony between this spirit of Nature 
and the mind of man, he was led from his sympathy with the former to 
a tender fellow-feeling for the latter. Added to his wonderful insight 
into natural life was a love of liberty and a trust in God which make 
his best works seem hardly less than inspired. During his early and 
best years the critics attacked him with a fierceness which no other 
great poet, save perhaps Keats, has ever aroused. Still the poet's 
confidence in himself and in his own ultimate success was unwavering. 
His aim was to lead men back from the empty conventionalities of the 
former age to a simple, natural conception of existence in close touch 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 1 63 

with Nature and with Nature's God. As a teacher of this kind his in- 
fluence was great, and his greatness unquestionable. The eighty years 
of his hfe were singularly uneventful, and may be indicated in a very 
few words. 

1770-1798. — Wordsworth was born at Cockermouth, in Cumberland, 
April, 1770. His early education was received in Lancashire. He was 
graduated from Cambridge at the age of twenty-one without having 
distinguished himself in any way. On leaving college he spent a short 
time in France, where he was much tempted to participate in the French 
Revolution. He finally settled down with his sister Dorothy in Somer- 
setshire, and there came under the influence and inspiration of his friend 
Coleridge. This intimacy resulted, in 1798, in the publication of the 
Lyrical Ballads, mainly the work of Wordsworth, yet containing as 
Coleridge's contribution the immortal Ancient Mariner. 

1 798-1 850. — The winter after the appearance of the Lyrical Ballads, 
Wordsworth and his sister, in company with Coleridge, made a visit to 
Germany. Returning after a few months, the Wordsworths went back 
to their beloved northern country, settling first at Grasmere and then at 
Rydal Mount, among the lakes of Westmoreland. The Lyrical Ballads 
were republished in 1800 and again in 1802. This latter year was also 
the date of the poet's marriage to Mary Hutchinson, a cousin. In this 
quiet spot, with wife and sister, and surrounded by Coleridge, Southey, 
De Quincey, Dr. Arnold, and other friends, he spent in "plain living 
and high thinking " the quiet remainder of his life. His most important 
poems were written during the earlier part of this period. The Ode 
to Duty appeared in 1805 ; The Prelude was completed the same year; 
the Ode on the Intimations of Immortality, one year later. Laodamia 
and the Excursion were produced in 18 14. Other volumes followed at 
intervals, though little actual writing was done after the poet's sixty-fifth 
year. On the death of Southey, in 1843, Wordsworth was made Poet 
Laureate. Before this time his works had succeeded in winning the 
appreciation of which their author was always calmly confident. His 
life came to an end in April, 1850, when he was just eighty years old. 

The poems which are given below are, perhaps, Wordsworth's finest. 
They are, as the student will readily perceive, very far from conforming 
to any narrow theory of poetry. The Tintern AMey lines formed a part 
of the Lyrical Ballads ; the two Odes have been already mentioned. 
In justice to his complete poetic career, some, also, of the poems should 
be read that were written in accordance with his earlier creed. Among 
the best and sweetest of these are Expostulation and Reply, The Tables 
Tttrned, Michael, and the poems on Lucy. Few more beautiful 
lyrics have been written than I IVandered Lonely as a Cloud and She 



164 WORDSWORTH 

was a Phantom of Delight. His longer poems, though sometimes 
tedious, such as the Exatrsion and the Prelude., contain many passages 
of rare power and beauty. As a writer of sonnets, Wordsworth's rank 
is very high. Saintsbury says of these that, with the exception of the 
Tinterti Abbey and the Ode on Immortality., they contain almost his 
best work ; and that the finest of them are characterized by a " stately 
magnificence " surpassed by no other poet — not even Milton. 

LINES 

COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE 
BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR, JULY 1 3, 1 798 

Five years have past ; five summers, with the length 

Of five long winters ! and again I hear 

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 

With a soft inland murmur. — Once again 

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 5 

That on a wild secluded scene impress 

Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect 

The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 

The day is come when I again repose 

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 10 

These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts. 

Which at this season, with their unripe fruits. 

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 

'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 

These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 15 

Of sportive wood run wild ; these pastoral farms, 

Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke 

Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! 

With some uncertain notice, as might seem 

Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 20 

Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire 

The hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous forms, 
Through a long absence, have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 25 



TIN TERN ABBEY 1 65 

Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, 

In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 

Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; 

And passing even into my purer mind, 

With tranquil restoration : — feelings too 30 

Of unreraembered pleasure : such, perhaps, 

As have no slight or trivial influence 

On that best portion of a good man's life, 

His little, nameless, unremembered, acts 

Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 35 

To them I may have owed another gift, 

Of aspect more subHme ; that blessed mood, 

In which the burden of the mystery. 

In which the heavy and the weary weight 

Of all this unintelligible world, 40 

Is lightened : — that serene and blessed mood, 

In which the affections gently lead us on, — 

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 

And even the motion of our human blood 

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 45 

In body, and become a Hving soul ; 

While with an eye made quiet by the power 

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy. 

We see into the life of things. 

If this 
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft — 50 

In darkness and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 55 

O sylvan Wye ! Thou wanderer thro' the woods, 
How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 

And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought. 
With many recognitions dim and faint. 

And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 60 

The picture of the mind revives again : 



1 66 WORDSWOKTH 

While here I stand, not only with the sense 

Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 

That in this moment there is life and food 

For future years. And so I dare to hope, 65 

Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 

I came among these hills ; when hke a roe 

I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 

Of the deep rivers and the lonely streams, 

Wherever nature led : more like a man 70 

Flying from something that he dreads, than one 

Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature then 

(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 

And their glad animal movements all gone by) 

To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 75 

What then I was. The sounding cataract 

Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, 

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 

Their colours and their forms, were then to me 

An appetite ; a feeling and a love, 80 

That had no need of a remoter charm, 

By thought supplied, nor any interest 

Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past. 

And all its aching joys are now no more, 

And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 85 

Faint I, nor mourn, nor murmur; other gifts 

Have followed ; for such loss, I would believe. 

Abundant recompense. For I have learned 

To look on nature, not as in the hour 

Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 90 

The still, sad music of humanity, 

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 

To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 

A presence that disturbs me with the joy 

Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 95 

Of something far more deeply interfused, 

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. 

And the round ocean and the living air. 

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man ; 



TINTERN ABBEY 1 6/ 

A motion and a spirit, that impels loo 

All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 

A lover of the meadows and the woods. 

And mountains ; and of all that we behold 

From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 105 

Of eye, and ear, — both what they half create, 

And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 

In nature and the language of the sense, 

The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. 

The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul no 

Of all my moral being. 

Nor perchance. 
If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
For thou art with me here upon the banks 
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend, 115 

My dear, dear Friend ; and in thy voice I catch 
The language of my former heart, and read 
My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 
May I behold in thee what I was once, 120 

My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I make, 
Knowing that Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege 
Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
From joy to joy : for she can so inform 125 

The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues. 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 130 

The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 135 

And let the misty mountain-winds be free 



1 68 WORDS WORTH 

To blow against thee : and, in after years, 

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 

Into a sober pleasure ; when thy mind 

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 140 

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 

For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then, 

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 

Should be thy portion, with what heaUng thoughts 

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 145 

And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance — 

If I should be where I no more can hear 

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams 

Of past existence — wilt thou then forget 

That on the banks of this delightful stream 150 

We stood together ; and that I, so long 

A worshipper of Nature, hither came 

Unwearied in that service : rather say 

With warmer love — oh ! with far deeper zeal 

Of holier love. Nor will thou then forget, 155 

That after many wanderings, many years 

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cHffs, 

And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 

More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake ! 

ODE 

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY 
CHILDHOOD 

I 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight. 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light. 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. S 

It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
Turn wheresoe'er I may. 
By night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 



ODE ON IMMORTALITY 1 69 



The Rainbow comes and goes, 10 

And lovely is the Rose, 
The Moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare, 
Waters on a starry night 

Are beautiful and fair ; 15 

The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 

Ill 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 

And while the young lambs bound 20 

As to the tabor's sound. 
To me alone there came a thought of grief; 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 

And I again am strong : 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; 25 

No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; 
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, 
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep. 
And all the earth is gay ; 

Land and sea 3° 

Give themselves up to joUity, 
And with the heart of May 
Doth every Beast keep holiday ; — 
Thou Child of Joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 35 
Shepherd-boy ! 

IV 

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 

My heart is at your festival, 40 

My head hath its coronal. 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 



1 70 WORDS IVOR TH 

Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 

While Earth herself is adorning, 

This sweet May- morning, 45 

And the Children are culling 
On every side, 

In a thousand valleys far and wide. 

Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, 
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm : — 50 

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 

— But there's a Tree, of many, one, 
A single Field which I have look'd upon. 
Both of them speak of something that is gone ; 

The Pansy at my feet 55 

Doth the same tale repeat : 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 



Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 

The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 60 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
And Cometh from afar : 

Not in entire forgetfulness. 

And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 65 

From God, who is our home : 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, 70 

He sees it in his joy ; 
The Youth, who daily farther from the east 

Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended ; 75 

At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 



ODE ON IMMORTALITY 171 



Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 

Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 

And, even with something of a Mother's mind, 80 

And no unworthy aim, 

The homely Nurse doth all she can 
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 

Forget the glories he hath known, 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 85 

VII 

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 

A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 

See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 

Fretted by saUies of his Mother's kisses. 

With light upon him from his Father's eyes ! 90 

See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 

Some fragment from his dream of human Hfe, 

Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral ; 95 

And this hath now his heart, 

And unto this he frames his song : 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 

But it will not be long 100 

Ere this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little Actor cons another part ; 
Filling from time to time his " humorous stage " 
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 105 

That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

VIII 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy Soul's immensity \ no 



1 72 IVORDS IVOR TH 

Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — 

Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 115 

On whom those truths do rest. 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
Thou, over whom thy Immortality 

Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 120 

A Presence which is not to be put by ; 
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 125 

Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

IX 

O joy ! that in our embers 130 

Is something that doth live. 
That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 

Perpetual benediction : not indeed 135 

For that which is most worthy to be blest — 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest. 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast : — 

Not for these I raise 14° 

The song of thanks and praise ; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things. 
Fallings from us, vanishings ; 

Blank misgivings of a Creature 145 

Moving about in worlds not realised. 



ODE ON IMMORTALITY 1 73 

High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised : 

But for those first affections, 

Those shadowy recollections, 150 

Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 155 

Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake 

To perish never ; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 

Nor Man nor Boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 160 

Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather 

Though inland far we be. 
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 

Which brought us hither, 165 

Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore- 



Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 

And let the young Lambs bound 170 

As to the tabor's sound ! 
We in thought will join your throng, 

Ye that pipe and ye that play, 

Ye that through your hearts to-day 

Feel the gladness of the May ! 175 

What though the radiance which was once so bright 
Be now for ever taken from my sight, 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower ; 

We will grieve not, rather find 180 

Strength in what remains behind; 

In the primal sympathy 



1 74 WORDS IVOR TH 

Which having been must ever be ; 
In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering ; 185 

In the faith that looks through death, 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

XI 

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 

Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 190 

I only have relinquished one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 195 

Is lovely yet ; 
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortahty ; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 200 

Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 

ODE TO DUTY 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! 

O Duty ! if that name thou love 

Who art a light to guide, a rod 

To check the erring, and reprove ; 

Thou, who art victory and law 5 

When empty terrors overawe ; 

From vain temptations dost set free ; 

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 

Be on them ; who, in love and truth^ 10 



ODE TO DUTY 1 75 

Where no misgiving is, rely 

Upon the genial sense of youth : 

Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot, 

Who do thy work, and know it not : 

Oh! if through confidence misplaced 15 

They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! around them cast. 

Serene will be our days and bright. 

And happy will our nature be, 

When love is an unerring light. 

And joy its own security. 20 

And they a blissful course may hold 

Even now, who, not unwisely bold. 

Live in the spirit of this creed ; 

Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried ; 25 

No sport of every random gust, 

Yet being to myself a guide. 

Too blindly have reposed my trust : 

And oft, when in my heart was heard 

Thy timely mandate, I deferred 30 

The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul, 

Or strong compunction in me wrought, 

I suppHcate for thy control ; 35 

But in the quietness of thought : 

Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 

I feel the weight of chance-desires : 

My hopes no more must change their name, 

I long for a repose that ever is the same. 40 

Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face : 



176 WORDSWORTH 

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, 45 

And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 

And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power ! 

I call thee : I myself commend 50 

Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 

Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 

Give unto me, made lowly wise, 

The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 

The confidence of reason give ; 55 

And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live ! 

SONNETS 

LONDON, 1802 [to MILTOn] 

Milton ! thou should'st be living at this hour : 

England hath need of thee : she is a fen 

Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, 

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 

Have forfeited their ancient English dower 5 

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 

Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : 10 

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. 

So didst thou travel on life's common way, 

In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 

The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPTEMBER 3, l8o2 

Earth has not anything to show more fair : 
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
A sight so touching in its majesty : 



SONNE 7'S 

This City now doth like a garment wear 

The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, 

Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie 

Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; 

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 

Never did sun more beautifully steep 

In his first splendour, valley, rock or hill ; 

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 

The river glideth at his own sweet will : 

Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 

And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 

" IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE " 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free ; 

The holy time is quiet as a Nun 

Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 

Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 

The gentleness of heaven broods o'er Sea. 

Listen ! the mighty Being is awake. 

And doth with his eternal motion make 

A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with me here, 

If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, 

Thy nature is not therefore less divine. 

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year ; 

And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 

God being with thee when we know it not. 

"the world is too much with us" 

The world is too much with us : late and soon. 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : 
Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours. 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; 
For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; 

N 



177 



178 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 

It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be 

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 10 

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn 

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; 

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 

"scorn not the sonnet" 

Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned, 

Mindless of its just honours ; with this key 

Shakespeare unlocked his heart ; the melody 

Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; 

A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; 5 

With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief; 

The- Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 

Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 

His visionary brow ; a glow-worm lamp. 

It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land 10 

To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp 

Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 

The Thing became a trumpet, whence he blew 

Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE (i 772-1 834) 

Of all the poets who helped to usher in the Romantic movement, none 
was more original and brilliant than Coleridge. Possessed of a mag- 
netic presence, a penetrating mind, a profound spiritual insight, and a 
wonderful influence over most of those with whom he came into contact, 
he had a native genius which ought to have placed him among the first 
of English authors. But, as Carlyle well expresses it, ''To the man 
himself Nature had given, in high measure, the seeds of a noble endow- 
ment ; and to unfold it had been forbidden him.'" For of all figures in 
our English pantheon of poets, none has been so weak of will, so desti- 
tute of executive force, so incapable of sustained effort, as this great 
dreamer. The early part of his life was filled with vague plans for social 
revolution ; the last with a constant stmggle against a craving for opium. 

His work was fragmentary to a singular degree. Much of his poetry 
is unworthy of his capabilities. As a matter of fact, nine-tenths of what 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 1 79 

he did write has very properiy been forgotten. But the part that is 
good, most of it written during a single twelve-month when the poet 
was twenty-five years old, is marvellous, ranking with the best in English 
poetry. The imagery, the metre, the felicity of phrase, the novelty, the 
suggestiveness, the splendid creative inspiration, are of the highest, the 
inevitable order. But Coleridge was not gifted with poetic faculties 
alone. Critic, philosopher, theologian, journalist, lecturer, sparkling 
conversationist, — he was all these, but all marred by the fatal flaw. 
Carry into action his splendid theories, or bring to a completion his 
brilliant designs, he could not. Yet, in spite of his frailties, he must 
be remembered as one of the most potent agencies in revolutionizing 
the English taste for literature and in changing the current of English 
critical and philosophical thought. He had the gift of firing others to 
do what he could not do himself. Wordsworth, Southey, Lamb, Hazlitt, 
Scott — all have acknowledged their great debt to the inspiration 
received from Coleridge. 

1772-1804. — Coleridge was born at the village of Ottery St. Mary 
in Devonshire, October, 1772. His father, a clergyman and school- 
master, died when the boy was only eight years old. Two years later 
he entered Christ's Hospital, a free school in London, where he was 
a schoolmate of that most delightful of essayists, Charles Lamb. At 
the age of nineteen he was enrolled at Jesus College. Cambridge, but 
left three years later without taking a degree. About this time he met 
the poet Southey, then a student at Oxford, and the two young men 
formed wild schemes of a socialist colony in America, — an undertaking 
which was subsequently given up for lack of funds. In 1795 Coleridge 
and Southey married sisters, and the former at length settled down in 
Somersetshire, where he became intimate with Wordsworth and united 
with him in writing the Lyrical Ballads. To this }ear, 1 797-1 798, 
belong The Ancient Mariner and the first part of Christabel; also 
Kubla Khan, a short and very beautiful fragment, composed (its author 
asserts) in a dream. Though he had written some verse before he met 
Wordsworth, this was the high-water mark of Coleridge's poetry. The 
next year, with Wordsworth and his sister, Coleridge went to Germany, 
where he learned the language, became interested in German philoso- 
phy, and began to translate Schiller's IVallenstein. In 1801, at the 
age of twenty-eight, he made his home in the Lake district near Words- 
worth and Southey. Here, just as life was opening her richest possi- 
bilities, he unfortunately took for an attack of rheumatism a quack 
medicine containing opium. The opium habit was henceforward to be 
his curse. 

1804-1834. — Abandoning his family to the care of Southey, Cole- 



l80 COLERIDGE 

ridge spent the next dozen years in roaming hither and thither, in 
England or on the continent, writing, lecturing, dreaming, fighting his 
terrible habit. In these years his writing was mostly of the critical 
kind. In 1816, at the age of forty-four, he placed himself in the family 
of a London physician, who undertook to help him overcome his appe- 
tite for opium. That year proved to be a second period of activity: it 
witnessed the production of the Biographia Literaria, his most notable 
prose work. The rest of his life was spent at the home of this good 
Mr. Gillman. Though unproductive of much published work, this was 
nevertheless a season of great influence and inspiration for the many 
" young, inquiring men," who were wont to gather around the oracle to 
listen to his wonderful and prophetic utterances concerning problems 
of philosophy and theology. Coleridge died in July, 1834. 

His best poems are undoubtedly those which were written during his 
early manhood, while he was enjoying the companionship of Words- 
worth. Kubla Khan and Christabel, while in certain passages of an 
almost unearthly beauty, are after all only fragments. But the ballad 
of Love, the Hymn before Sunrise, and the ode on Fra7ice are both 
highly poetical and complete. His masterpiece. The Ancient Mariner, 
in its combination of mystery and sublimity, of marvellous descriptive 
power and half-hidden spiritual truth, stands undoubtedly first of the 
consciously artistic ballads of English literature. 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 

IN SEVEN PARTS 

Argument 

How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold 
Country towards the South Pole; and how from thence she made her course 
to the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean; and of the strange things 
that befell; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to his own 
Country. 

Part I 



M"a?rnir"meet- ^T is ati ancicnt Mariner, 

eth three Gal- ^nd hc stoDDeth oiic of three. 



lants bidden to 



a wedding- " By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, 

dmi'nethone. Now whcrefore stopp'st thou me? 



THE ANCIENT MARINER 



i8i 



" The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, 
And I am next of kin ; 
The guests are met, the feast is set : 
May'st hear the merry din." 

He holds him with his skinny hand, 
"There was a ship," quoth he. 
*' Hold off ! unhand me, gray-beard loon ! " 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 



He holds him with his glittering eye — 
The Wedding- Guest stood still. 
And listens like a three years' child : 
The Mariner hath his will. 

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone : 
He cannot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 

" The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared. 

Merrily did we drop 

Below the kirk, below the hill. 

Below the lighthouse top. 

" The sun came up upon the left. 
Out of the sea came he ! 
And he shone bright, and on the right 
Went down into the sea. 

" Higher and higher every day, 

Till over the mast at noon — " 

The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, 

For he heard the loud bassoon. 



The Wedding- 
Guest is spell- 
bound by the 
eye of the old 
seafaring man, 
and constrained 
to hear his tale. 



25 



The Mariner 

tells how the 
ship sailed 
southward with 
agood wind and 
fairweather, till 
it reached the 
line. 



30 



The bride hath paced into the hall. 
Red as a rose is she ; 
Nodding their heads before her goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 



35 



The Wedding- 
Guest heareth 
the bridal mu- 
sic ; but the 
Mariner con- 
tinueth his tale. 



1 82 



COLERIDGE 



The ship 
driven by a 
storm toward 
the south pole. 



The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 

" And now the Storm-blast came, and he 
Was tyrannous and strong : 
He struck with his o'ertaking wings, 
And chased us south along. 



40 



The land of ice, 
and of fearful 
sounds where 
no living thing 
was to be seen, 



" With sloping masts and dipping prow, 

As who pursued with yell and blow 

Still treads the shadow of his foe, 

And forward bends his head, 

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast. 

And southward aye we fled. 

" And now there came both mist and snow. 
And it grew wondrous cold : 
And ice, mast-high, came floating by. 
As green as emerald. 

" And through the drifts the snowy clifts 
Did send a dismal sheen : 
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 
The ice was all between. 



45 



50 



" The ice was here, the ice was there. 
The ice was all around : 60 

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled. 
Like noises in a swound ! 



Till a great sea- 
bird, called the 
Albatross, came 
through the 
snow-fog, and 
was received 
with great joy 
and hospitality. 



" At length did cross an Albatross, 
Thorough the fog it came ; 
As if it had been a Christian soul. 
We hailed it in God's name. 

" It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 
And round and round it flew. 



65 



THE ANCIENT MARINER 



183 



The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
The hehiisman steered us through ! 

" And a good south wind sprung up behind ; 

The Albatross did follow, 

And every day, for food or play, 

Came to the mariners' hollo ! 

" In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 

It perched for vespers nine ; 

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white. 

Glimmered the white moon-shine." 



70 



And lo! the Al- 
batross proveth 
a bird of good 
omen, and fol- 
loweth the ship 
as it returned 
northward 
through fog and 
floating ice. 



" God save thee, ancient Mariner ! 
From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — 
Why look'st thou so? " — " With my cross-bow 
I shot the Albatross. 



The ancient 
Mariner in- 
hospitably 
killeth the 
pious bird of 
good omen. 



Part II 

" The Sun now rose upon the right ; 
Out of the sea came he. 
Still hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 



85 



" And the good south wind still blew behind, 

But no sweet bird did follow, 

Nor any day for food or play 

Came to the mariners' hollo ! 90 

" And I had done a hellish thing. 

And it would work 'em woe : 

For all averred, I had killed the bird 

That made the breeze to blow. 

' Ah wretch ! ' said they, ' the bird to slay, 95 

That made the breeze to blow ! ' 



His shipmates 
cry out against 
the ancient 
Mariner, for 
killing the 
bird of good 
luck. 



" Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, 
The glorious Sun uprist : 



But when the 
fog cleared off, 
they justify the 



1 84 



COLERIDGE 



same, and thus 
make them- 
selves accom- 
plices in the 
Clime. 



The fair breeze 
continues; the 
ship enters the 
Pacific Ocean, 
and sails north- 
ward, even till 
it reaches the 
line. 



The ship hath 
been suddenly 
becalmed. 



Then all averred, I had killed the bird 
That brought the fog and mist. loo 

' 'Twas right,' said they, ' such birds to slay, 
That bring the fog and mist.' 

" The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 
The furrow followed free ; 

We were the first that ever burst 105 

Into that silent sea. 

" Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 

'Twas sad as sad could be ; 

And we did speak only to break 

The silence of the sea ! no 

" All in a hot and copper sky, 
The bloody Sun, at noon. 
Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the Moon. 



And the Alba- 
tross begins to 
be avenged. 



" Day after day, day after day, 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

"Water, water, everywhere. 
And all the boards did shrink ; 
Water, water, everywhere 
Nor any drop to drink. 

" The very deep did rot : O Christ ! 
That ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 

"About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night ; 
The water, like a witch's oils. 
Burnt green, and blue, and white. 



"5 



125 



130 



THE ANCIENT MARINER 



185 



" And some in dreams assured were 
Of the Spirit that plagued us so ; 
Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
From the land of mist and snow. 

" And every tongue, through utter drought, 135 

Was withered at the root ; 

We could not speak, no more than if 

We had been choked with soot. 

" Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks 

Had I from old and young ! 140 

Instead of the cross, the Albatross 

About my neck was hung. 

Part III 

" There passed a weary time. Each throat 

Was parched, and glazed each eye. 

A weary time ! a weary time ! 145 

How glazed each weary eye, 

When looking westward, I beheld 

A something in the sky. 

" At first it seemed a little speck, 

And then it seemed a mist ; 150 

It moved and moved, and took at last 

A certain shape, I wist. 

" A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 

And still it neared and neared : 

As if it dodged a water-sprite, 155 

It plunged and tacked and veered. 

" With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 

We could nor laugh nor wail ; 

Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! 

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, i6o 

And cried, ' A sail ! a sail ! ' 



A spirit had 
followed them; 
one of the in- 
visible inhabit- 
ants of this 
planet, neither 
departed souls 
nor angels; 
concerning 
whom the 
learned Jew, 
Josephus, and 
the Platonic 
Constantino- 
politan, 
Michael 
Psellus, may 
be consulted. 
They are very 
numerous, and 
there is no cli- 
mate or ele- 
ment without 
one or more. 

The shipmates, 
in their sore 
distress, would 
fain throw the 
whole guilt on 
the ancient 
Mariner : in 
sign whereof 
they hang the 
dead sea-bird 
round his neck. 



The ancient 
Mariner be- 
holdeth a sign 
in the element 
afar off. 



At its nearer 
approach, it 
seemeth him to 
be a ship ; and 
at a dear ran- 
som he freeth 
his speech from 
the bonds of 
thirst. 



i86 



COLERIDGE 



A flash of joy. 



And horror fol- 
lows ; for can it 
be a ship that 
comes onward 
without wind 
or tide ? 



" With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 

Agape they heard me call : 

Gramercy ! they for joy did grin. 

And all at once their breath drew in, 165 

As they were drinking all. 

" ' See ! see ! ' (I cried) ' she tacks no more ! 
Hither to work us weal ; 
Without a breeze, without a tide. 
She steadies with upright keel ! ' 



170 



"The western wave was all a-flame, 

The day was well-nigh done ! 

Almost upon the western wave 

Rested the broad bright Sun ; 

When that strange shape drove suddenly 

Betwixt us and the Sun. 



'75 



It seemeth him 
but the skele- 
ton of a ship. 



And its ribs are 
seen as bars on 
the face of the 
setting Sun. 
The Spectre- 
Woman and 
her death-mate, 
and no other 
on board the 
skeleton ship. 
I-ike vessel, 
like crew ! 



" And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, 

(Heaven's Mother send us grace !) 

As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 

With broad and burning face. 180 

" ' Alas ! ' (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
' How fast she nears and nears ! 
Are those her sails that glance in the sun. 
Like restless gossameres? 

" ' Are those her ribs through which the sun 185 
Did peer, as through a grate ? 
And is that woman all her crew? 
Is that a Death? and are there two? 
Is Death that woman's mate? ' 

" Her lips were red, her looks were free, 190 

Her locks were yellow as gold : 

Her skin was as white as leprosy, 

The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 

Who thicks man's blood with cold. 



THE ANCIENT MARINER 



187 



" The naked hulk alongside came, 195 

And the twain were casting dice ; 
'The game is done ! I've won ! Tve won ! ' 
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

"The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out; 

At one stride comes the dark ; 200 

With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea. 

Off shot the spectre-bark. 

" We listened and looked sideways up ! 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup. 

My life-blood seemed to sip ! 205 

The stars were dim, and thick the night, 

The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white 

From the sails the dew did drip — 

Till clomb above the eastern bar 

The horned Moon, with one bright star 210 

Within the nether tip. 

" One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, 

Too quick for groan or sigh. 

Each turned his face with a ghastly pang. 

And cursed me with his eye. 215 

"Four times fifty living men, 
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump. 
They dropped down one by one. 

"The souls did from their bodies fly, — 220 

They fled to bliss or woe ! 

And every soul, it passed me by. 

Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! " 



Death and Life- 
in-Death have 
diced for the 
ship's crew, 
and she (the 
latter) winneth 
the ancient 
Mariner. 

No twiHght 
within the 
courts of the 
Sun. 



At the rising 
of the Moon, 



one after an- 
other, 



his shipmates 
drop down 
dead. 



But Life-in- 
Death begins 
her work on the 
ancient Mar- 
iner. 



Part IV 

" I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! 

I fear thy skinny hand ! 

And thou art long, and lank, and brown. 

As is the ribbed sea-sand. 



The Wedding- 
Guest feareth 
225 that a spirit is 
talking to him; 



1 88 



COLERIDGE 



but the ancient 
Mariner as- 
sureth him of 
his bodily life, 
and proceedeth 
to relate his 
horrible pen- 
ance. 



" I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 

And thy skinny hand, so brown." — 

" Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest ! 230 

This body dropt not down. 

" Alone, alone, all, all alone, 

Alone on a wide wide sea ! 

And never a saint took pity on 

My soul in agony. 235 



He despiseth 
the creatures of 
the calm, 



" The many men, so beautiful ! 
And they all dead did lie : 
And a thousand thousand slimy things 
Lived on ; and so did I. 



and envieth 
that they should 
live, and so 
many lie dead. 



" I looked upon the rotting sea, 
And drew my eyes away ; 
I looked upon the rotting deck, 
And there the dead men lay. 



240 



" I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ; 
But or ever a prayer had gusht, 
A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 



245 



" I closed my lids, and kept them close. 

And the balls like pulses beat ; 

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, 250 

Lay like a load on my weary eye, 

And the dead were at my feet. 



But the curse 
liveth for him 
in the eye of 
the dead men. 



" The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
Nor rot nor reek did they : 
The look with which they looked on me 
Had never passed away. 



255 



" An orphan's curse would drag to hell 
A spirit from on high ; 



THE ANCIENT MARINER 



189 



But oh ! more horrible than that 
Is a curse in a dead man's eye ! 260 

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse. 
And yet I could not die. 

" The moving Moon went up the sky, 

And nowhere did abide : 

Softly she was going up, 265 

And a star or two beside — 

" Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 

Like April hoar-frost spread ; 

But where the ship's huge shadow lay. 

The charmed water burnt alvvay 270 

A still and awful red. 

" Beyond the shadow of the ship, 

I watched the water-snakes : 

They moved in tracks of shining white. 

And when they reared, the elfish light 275 

Fell off in hoary flakes. 

" Within the shadow of the ship 

I watched their rich attire : 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 

They coiled and swam ; and every track 280 

Was a flash of golden fire. 

" O happy living things ! no tongue 

Their beauty might declare : 

A spring of love gushed from my heart, 

And I blessed them unaware : 285 

Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 

And I blessed them unaware. 



In his loneli- 
ness and fixed- 
ness he 
yearneth to- 
wards the jour- 
neying Moon, 
and the stars 
that still so- 
journ, yet still 
move onward ; 
and every w here 
the blue sky be- 
longs to them, 
and is their ap- 
pointed rest, 
and their native 
country and 
their own natu- 
ral homes, 
which they en- 
ter unan- 
nounced, as 
lords that are 
certainly ex- 
pected and yet 
there is a silent 
joy at their ar- 
rival. 



By the light of 
the Moon he 
beholdeth 
God's creatures 
of the great 
calm. 



Their beauty 
and their 
happiness. 



He blesseth 
them in his 
heart. 



" The selfsame moment I could pray ; 
And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea. 



The spell be- 
gins to break. 



290 



1 90 



COLERIDGE 



By grace of the 
holy Mother, 
the ancient 
Mariner is re- 
freshed with 
rain. 



He heareth 
sounds and 
seeth strange 
sights and com- 
motions in the 
sky and the 
element. 



Part V 

" Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 

Beloved from pole to pole ! 

To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 

She sent the gentle sleep from heaven, 295 

That slid into my soul. 

•' The silly buckets on the deck, 

That had so long remained, 

I dreamt that they were filled with dew ; 

And when I awoke, it rained. 300 

" My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
My garments all were dank ; 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
And still my body drank. 

" I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 305 

I was so light — almost 

I thought that I had died in sleep. 

And was a blessed ghost, 

" And soon I heard a roaring wind : 

It did not come anear ; 310 

But with its sound it shook the sails, 

That were so thin and sere. 



" The upper air burst into life ! 
And a hundred fire-flags sheen. 
To and fro they were hurried about ! 
And to and fro, and in and out, 
The wan stars danced between. 



315 



"And the coming wind did roar more loud. 
And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
, And the rain poured down from one black cloud 
The Moon was at its edge. 



320 



THE ANCIENT MARINER 



191 



" The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 

The Moon was at its side : 

Like waters shot from some high crag, 

The lightning fell with never a jag, 325 

A river steep and wide. 

" The loud wind never reached the ship, 

Yet now the ship moved on ! 

Beneath the lightning and the Moon 

The dead men gave a groan. 330 



The bodies of 
the ship's crew 
are inspirited, 
and the ship 
moves on ; 



" They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
It had been strange, even in a dream, 
To have seen those dead men rise. 



"The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; 335 

Yet never a breeze up blew ; 

The mariners all 'gan work the ropes. 

Where they were wont to do ; 

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — 

We were a ghastly crew. 340 

" The body of my brother's son 
Stood by me, knee to knee : 
The body and I pulled at one rope 
But he said nought to me. — " 

" I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! " 345 

" Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, 
Which to their corses came again, 
But a troop of spirits blest : 

" For when it dawned — they dropped their arms, 350 
And clustered round the mast ; 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths. 
And from their bodies passed. 



but not by the 
souls of the 
men, nor by 
daemons of 
earth or middle 
air, but by a 
blessed troop of 
angelic spirits, 
sent down by 
the invocation 
of the guardian 
saint. 



192 



COLERIDGE 



" Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 
Then darted to the Sun ; 355 

Slowly the sounds came back again, 
Now mixed, now one by one. 

" Sometimes a- dropping from the sky 

I heard the sky-lark sing ; 

Sometimes all little birds that are, 360 

How they seemed to fill the sea and air 

With their sweet jargoning ! 

" And now 'twas like all instruments, 

Now Hke a lonely flute ; 

And now it is an angel's song, 365 

That makes the heavens be mute. 



" It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all night 

Singeth a quiet tune. 



370 



The lonesome 
Spirit from the 
south pole car- 
ries on the ship 
as far as the 
line, in obedi- 
ence to trie 
angelic troop, 
br.t still re- 
quireth ven- 
geance. 



" Till noon we quietly sailed on, 
Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
Moved onward from beneath. 

" Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
From the land of mist and snow, 
The spirit slid ; and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 
The sails at noon left off their tune, 
And the ship stood still also. 



375 



380 



"The Sun, right up above the mast. 
Had fixed her to the ocean ; 
But in a minute she 'gan stir, 



385 



THE ANCIENT MARINER 



193 



With a short uneasy motion — 
Backwards and forwards half her length. 
With a short uneasy motion. 

" Then, like a pawing horse let go, 
She made a sudden bound : 
It flung the blood into my head. 
And I fell down in a s wound. 



390 



*' How long in that same fit I lay, 
I have not to declare ; 
But ere my living life returned, 
I heard, and in my soul discerned, 
Two voices in the air. 

" ' Is it he ? ' quoth one, ' Is this the man ? 
By Him who died on cross. 
With his cruel bow he laid full low 
The harmless Albatross. 

" ' The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow. 
He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow.' 

" The other was a softer voice. 

As soft as honey-dew : 

Quoth he, ' The man hath penance done, 

And penance more will do.' 



395 



400 



The Polar 
Spirit's fellow- 
dsemons, the in- 
visible inhabit- 
ants of the ele- 
ment, take part 
in his wrong ; 
and two of them 
relate, onetothc 
other, that pen- 
ance long and 
heavy for the 
ancient Mar- 
iner hath been 
accorded to the 
Polar Spirit, 
who returneth 
southward. 



405 



Part VI 

First Voice 

" ' But tell me, tell me ! speak again. 
Thy soft response renewing — 
What makes that ship drive on so fast? 
What is the ocean doing? ' 
o 



410 



194 



COLERIDGE 



Second Voice 

" ' Still as a slave before his lord, 
The ocean hath no blast ; 
His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the Moon is cast — 

" ' If he may know which way to go ; 
For she guides him smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see ! how graciously 
She looketh down on him.' 



4^5 



420 



The Mariner 
hath been cast 
into a trance ; 
for the angehc 
power causeth 
the vessel to 
drive north- 
ward faster 
than human 
life could 
endure. 



The supernatu- 
ral motion is 
retarded; the 
Mariner 
awakes, and 
his penance 
begins anew. 



First Voice 

" ' But why drives on that ship so fast, 
Without or wave or wind ? ' 

Second Voice 

' The air is cut away before, 

And closes from behind. 425 

" ' Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 
Or we shall be belated : 
For slow and slow that ship will go, 
When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 

" I woke, and we were sailing on 430 

As in a gentle weather : 

'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high ; 
The dead men stood together. 

" All stood together on the deck. 

For a charnel-dungeon fitter : 435 

All fixed on me their stony eyes, 

That in the Moon did glitter. 

" The pang, the curse, with which they died. 
Had never passed away : 

I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 440 

Nor turn them up to pray. 



THE ANCIENT MARINER 



195 



" And now this spell was snapt : once more 

I viewed the ocean green, 

And looked far forth, yet little saw 

Of what had else been seen — 445 

" Like one, that on a lonesome road 

Doth walk in fear and dread, 

And having once turned round walks on, 

And turns no more his head ; 

Because he knows, a frightful fiend 450 

Doth close behind him tread. 



The curse is 
fnally ex- 
piated. 



" But soon there breathed a wind on me, 

Nor sound nor motion made : 

Its path was not upon the sea, 

In ripple or in shade. 455 ' 

" It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
It mingled strangely with my fears. 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

" Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 460 

Yet she sailed softly too : 

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 

On me alone it blew. 



" Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed 
The lighthouse top I see? 
Is this the hill? is this the kirk? 
Is this mine own countree ? 



465 



And the an- 
cient Mariner 
beholdeth his 
native country. 



" We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, 
And I with sobs did pray — 
* O let me be awake, my God ! 
Or let me sleep alway.' 

" The harbour-bay was clear as glass. 
So smoothly it was strewn ! 



470 



196 



COLERIDGE 

And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
And the shadow of the Moon. 



475 



" The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
That stands above the rock : 
The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 



The angelic 
spirits leave the 
dead bodies, 



and appear in 
their own forms 
of light. 



" And the bay was white with silent light, 480 

Till, rising from the same, 

Full many shapes, that shadows were, 

In crimson colours came. 

" A little distance from the prow 

Those crimson shadows were : 485 

I turned my eyes upon the deck — 

Oh Christ ! what saw I there ! 



" Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat. 
And, by the holy rood ! 
A man all light, a seraph-man, 
On every corse there stood. 



490 



" This seraph-band, each waved his hand ; 
It was a heavenly sight ! 
They stood as signals to the land. 
Each one a lovely light ; 



495 



" This seraph-band, each waved his hand 
No voice did they impart — 
No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 



" But soon I heard the dash of oars ; 
I heard the Pilot's cheer ; 
My head was turned perforce away. 
And I saw a boat appear. 



500 



THE ANCIENT MARINER 

" The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 
I heard them coming fast : 
Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

" I saw a third — I heard his voice : 

It is the Hermit good ! 

He singeth loud his godly hymns 

That he makes in the wood. 

He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 

The Albatross's blood. 



197 



s°s 



510 



Part VH 



" This Hermit good lives in that wood 

Which slopes down to the sea. 515 

How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 

He loves to talk with marineres 

That come from a far countree. 

" He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — 
He hath a cushion plump : 520 

It is the moss that wholly hides 
The rotted old oak-stump. 

" The skiff-boat neared : I heard them talk, 
* Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
Where are those lights so many and fair, 525 

That signal made but now ? ' 

" * Strange, by my faith ! ' the Hermit said — 

' And they answered not our cheer ! 

The planks look warped ! and see those sails, 

How thin they are and sere ! 530 

I never saw aught like to them, 

Unless perchance it were 

" ' Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest-brook along ; 



The Hermit of 
the wood 



approacheth 
the ship with 
wonder. 



1 98 COLERIDGE 

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 535 

And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 
That eats the she-wolfs young.' 

" ' Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look — ' 
(The Pilot made reply) 

* I am a-feared ' — ' Push on, push on ! ' 540 

Said the Hermit cheerily. 

"The boat came closer to the ship, 

But I nor spake nor stirred ; 

The boat came close beneath the ship, 

And straight a sound was heard. 545 

The ship sud- " Under the water it rumbled on, 

denly sinketh. r>. -n i i i i i 

Still louder and more dread : 

It reached the ship, it split the bay; 

The ship went down like lead. 

The ancient " Stuuncd by that loud and dreadful sound, ceo 

Manner is . -^ j 33 

saved in the Which sky and ocean smote, 

Like one that hath been seven days drowned 

My body lay afloat ; 

But, swift as dreams, myself I found 

Within the Pilot's boat. 555 

" Upon the whirl, where sank the ship. 
The boat spun round and round ; 
And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

" I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 560 

And fell down in a fit ; 

The holy Hermit raised his eyes, 

And prayed where he did sit. 

" I took the oars : the Pilot's boy, 

Who now doth crazy go, 565 



THE ANCIENT MARINER 



199 



Laughed loud and long, and all the while 
His eyes went to and fro. 
' Ha ! ha ! ' quoth he, ' full plain I see, 
The Devil knows how to row.' 

" And now, all in my own countree, 570 

I stood on the firm land ! 
The Hermit stepped forth from the boat. 
And scarcely he could stand. 

" ' O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man ! ' 
The Hermit crossed his brow. 575 

' Say quick,' quoth he, ' I bid thee say — 
What manner of man art thou?' 

" Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 
With a woful agony. 

Which forced me to begin my tale ; 5S0 

And then it left me free. 

" Since then, at an uncertain hour. 

That agony returns ; 

And till my ghastly tale is told. 

This heart within me burns. 585 

" I pass, like night, from land to land ; 

I have strange power of speech ; 

That moment that his face I see, 

I know the man that must hear me : 

To him my tale I teach. 590 

" What loud uproar bursts from that door ! 

The wedding-guests are there : 

But in the garden-bower the bride 

And bride-maids singing are : 

And hark the Httle vesper bell, 595 

Which biddeth me to prayer ! 

" O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide, wide sea : 



The ancient 
Mariner ear- 
nestly entreat- 
eth the Hermit 
to shrieve him ; 
and the pen- 
ance of life falls 
on him. 



And ever and 
anon through- 
out his future 
life an agony 
constraineth 
him to travel 
from land to 
land, 



200 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



and to teach, 
by his own ex- 
ample, love 
and reverence 
to all things 
that God made 
and loveth. 



So lonely 'twas, that God himself 

Scarce seemed there to be. 600 

" O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
'Tis sweeter far to me, 
To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company ! — 



605 



" To walk together to the kirk, 

And all together pray, 

While each to his great Father bends, 

Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 

And youths and maidens gay ! 



" Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 610 

To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

" He prayeth best, who loveth best 

All things both great and small ; 615 

For the dear God who loveth us. 

He made and loveth all." 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright. 

Whose beard with age is hoar. 

Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest 620 

Turned from the bridegroom's door. 

He went like one that hath been stunned. 

And is of sense forlorn : 

A sadder and a wiser man, 

He rose the morrow morn. 625 



2. THE POETS OF SOCIAL REVOLT 

Since the Romantic revival reached its climax with Wordsworth, 
Coleridge, and Scott, in the new poetry of the early nineteenth century, 
the changes of its fashion have been comparatively insignificant ; what- 
ever variations of mood and treatment exist are due rather to the dis- 



GEORGE GORDON BYRON 20I 

tinctive temperaments of individual poets than to any marked divergence 
of poetic "tendencies" or "schools." There is, however, sufficient 
kinship between certain poets of the first quarter of the century to 
justify the heading of this sketch. 

As we have seen, Coleridge and Wordsworth were early attracted by 
an enthusiasm for the French Revolution and for the spirit of freedom 
and equality which it seemed to breathe. But these poets were soon 
turned from their inclination by the violence which accompanied the 
Revolution, and by a profound disappointment in the results of the 
struggle. It was reserved for two later writers, byrox and shelley, to 
divine and express the poetic significance of this revolutionary spirit. 
These young men were poets of brilliant genius and of independent 
spirit. Both were devoted lovers of liberty, and both carried their love 
of liberty so far as to be convinced of the necessity of breaking away 
from the traditions — and from what they regarded as the unnatural 
restraints — of organized society. To be sure, their distinctive differ- 
ences of character were as marked as their points of likeness. Byron 
was a man of ungoverned passions, animal enthusiasms, tremendous 
egotism, cynical and, sometimes, pessimistic temperament. Shelley, 
on the other hand, was averse to sensual indulgence and generous to a 
fault ; he seemed rather a dweller in some ethereal world than a creature 
of this earth. As a writer, Byron was naturally glorious in rhetoric but 
hasty and careless in composition ; charged with intellectual force, but 
deficient in imagination and poetic earnestness : while Shelley was a 
dreamer, imaginative, unpractical, but an exquisite artist, a poet in 
every fibre. Yet, in spite of these differences in character and art, each 
was, in his own way, a poet of radicalism or revolt. 



GEORGE GORDON BYRON (1788-1824) 

Of all English poets none was, from the first, greeted with such 
unstinted and universal applause as Lord Byron. Unlike Keats or 
Wordsworth or Browning, whose growth into popular favor was slow, 
Byron achieved that favor almost at a single leap. As he himself says, 
after the publication of the first two cantos of Childe Harold^ " I awoke 
to find myself famous." His poems were received abroad even more 
enthusiastically than at home. Taine, the great French critic, declares 
that " all styles appear dull beside his," and that " he is so great that 
from him alone we shall learn more truths of his country than from all 
the rest combined " ; while Goethe, the German poet and critic, has 
said that the English " can show no poet who is to be compared with 
him." Byron's influence over the literature of foreign nations has been 



202 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 

very great indeed. His reputation in continental Europe rivalled even 
that of Shakespeare ; and it has, even to the present day, scarcely 
waned. 

Not so in England. Despite his brilliant genius and wonderful poetic 
ability, Byron's decline in the favor of both English critic and English 
reader was as sure as his ascent was rapid. Nor are the causes far to 
seek. Byron was a poet of the Revolution. He caught the spirit of 
his age in representing the reaction of a new century against cant and 
hypocrisy in society, religion, and politics. He wrote, moreover, with an 
assured strength, a spirited abandon, a splendid " sweep and energy " 
that at first carried all before him. His subjects were pleasing; his 
lyric and narrative intensity and his reckless humor compelled at- 
tention ; his fascinating personality shone clear and winsome through 
every line of his work. And so, when his star arose, his contempo- 
raries were first attracted ; then they marvelled, then enthusiastically 
admired. But he wrote with little artistic finish ; and many, especially 
those at whose social and religious ideals he had jeered, denounced 
his poetry as lacking in high seriousness, spirituality, comprehension 
of life, natural and human, reverence for the decent and divine. These 
charges were not altogether just : his style is rapid, nervous, direct, 
incisive, and exhilarating ; and though his Titanic heroes in their 
revolt against authority may sometimes be theatrical, sometimes profane, 
still in The Prisoner of Chillon and Prometheus he shows a real sym- 
pathy for the martyrs of mankind ; in the later cantos of Childe Harold 
he sounds the note of patriotism and historic woe ; in many a poem, the 
diapason of nature in her changing moods. Much of his poetry, to be 
sure, was written for the fashion and the time ; that of course fails now 
of its appeal. His contemporaries of the sober kind found him (and 
with reason) not infrequently flippant. In his Don Juan, which some 
consider his best and most characteristic work, he seemed even to 
delight in defying the proprieties. His cynicism is often tedious, and 
his sincerity sometimes doubtful. So his star has for a season waned. 
But it is not burnt out ; merely eclipsed. As younger and more con- 
ventional poets pass from the zenith, and the fashion of radicalism 
returns, Byron will again be increasingly read and enjoyed. His 
Childe Harold will live as long as the historic sense remains with 
man ; and Chillon, Mazeppa, The Prophecy of Dante, and Don Juan, 
while man is virile, adventurous, freedom-loving, passionate, and heroic. 

1788-1812. — George Gordon Byron was born in London, January, 
1788, the descendant of one of the oldest houses of English nobility. 
His father. Captain Byron of the English army, was a man of reckless 
and dissolute habits ; liis mother was a haughty, but poorly balanced 



1 



GEORGE GORDON BYRON 203 

woman, worse than no mother in the training of a son. On the death 
of his great-uncle, the " wicked " Lord Byron, George, when only ten 
years old, came into the title and estates of the family. Not long after 
this he went to school at Harrow, and afterward to Trinity College, 
Cambridge, where he remained about three years. We may imagine 
him at this time a handsome, high-spirited boy, headstrong, self-willed, 
passionate. Owing to a deformation of one foot, he was somewhat lame ; 
yet he was athletic and reckless in sports. When nineteen years of 
age, he issued a collection of verses entitled Hours of Idleness. This 
the Edinburgh Reviezv ridiculed in a way so exasperating to the young 
poet that two years later he published a brilliant satirical reply in verse, 
which he called English Bards and Scotch Revieivers. This same 
year, 1809, he took his seat in the House of Lords, and immediately 
thereafter departed for travel through the countries around the Mediter- 
ranean, a journey in which he spent two years. 

1812-1816. — Returning to England with the first two cantos of The 
Pilgrimage of Childe Harold, Byron was induced to publish them, and, 
as a result, achieved unparalleled popularity. The poem itself is char- 
acteristic, full of the author's individuality, and based upon impressions 
of his journey. During the next four years he wrote half a dozen tales 
in verse, The Corsair, The Siege of Corinth, etc. ; and each new pro- 
duction was hailed with greater delight than that which preceded. 
In 1815 he married a Miss Milbanke, but the union proved most un- 
happy, and the couple separated within a year. English society sided 
with the wife, and Byron now found himself as unpopular as he had 
before been popular. Hurt and angry, in 1816 he accordingly left 
England, never to return. 

1816-1824. — During this exile his pen was even more active than 
before. First, he spent several months at Genoa, with Shelley and his 
wife, and wrote The Prisoner of Chillon and the third canto of Childe 
Harold. The next year he went to Venice, where, in the midst of a 
life of reckless dissipation, he managed to finish his Manfred ?ind another 
canto of Childe Harold, and to follow these with Mazeppa and the 
first part of Don Juan. We next see him at Ravenna plotting against 
the Austrian rulers of Italy, then at Pisa with Shelley again, and finally 
at Genoa. The Greeks were at this time struggling for indeperKlence 
from Turkey, and Byron with characteristic impetuosity threw himself 
into their caiise. Late in 1823 he embarked for Greece, where he was 
invited to a congress at Salona, which had for its purpose to offer him 
the crown of Greece. But enfeebled by exposure and disease he was 
even then upon his death-bed. His life ended at Missolonghi, April 19, 
1824, — just as it was beginning to give promise of some practical ser- 
vice to humanity. 



204 BYRON 

Byron is best represented by his longer poems ; but these are of such 
a nature that it is very difficult to make extracts from them which will 
preserve the flavor of the whole. Of the Childe Harold, the strongest 
canto is undoubtedly the third, which contains some of the poet's best 
descriptive and reflective stanzas. Indeed, in the third and fourth can- 
tos are to be found passages that deserve to be ranked with the best 
poetry of the century. Manfred, another of his longer poems, is well 
worthy to be read entire. Some of his shorter lyrics have the ring of 
inevitable art, — simple, passionate, and beautiful, such as Fare Thee 
Well, She Walks in Beauty, The Isles of Greece, Maid of Athens, and 
the Lines on Completing my Thirty-Sixth Year. The Prisoner of Chil- 
ton, which is given below, was written at the most fruitful period of his 
life. It has not the love-interest or the passion for reckless adventure 
of many of Byron's poems, yet it furnishes a fine example of his powers 
of description, his simplicity of style, his directness and vigor, and his 
enthusiasm for liberty of conscience. The Sonnet on Chillon was writ- 
ten later when the poet had become acquainted with the story of Bon- 
nivard, an actual "prisoner of Chillon." The few stanzas from Childe 
Harold — we wish they could be more — are added merely to give the 
student a taste of, and for, that splendid poem. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 



My hair is grey, but not with years, 

Nor grew it white 

In a single night, 
As men's have grown from sudden fears : 
My limbs are bovv'd, though not with toil, 5 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 10 

But this was for my father's faith 
I suffer'd chains and courted death ; 
That father perish'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 15 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 205 

In darkness found a dwelling-place ; 
We were seven — who now are one ; 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had begun, 

Proud of Persecution's rage ; 20 

One in fire, and two in field, 
Their belief with blood have seal'd, 
Dying as their father died. 
For the God their foes denied ; 

Three were in a dungeon cast, 25 

Of whom this wreck is left the last. 



There are seven pillars of Gothic mould 

In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, 

There are seven columns, massy and grey, 

Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 30 

A sunbeam which hath lost its way. 

And through the crevice and the cleft 

Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 

Creeping o'er the floor so damp. 

Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 35 

And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing, 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away, 40 

Till I have done with this new day. 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
I lost their long and heavy score 45 

When my last brother droop'd and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 

Ill 

They chain'd us each to a column stone, 
And we were three — yet, each alone ; 



206 BYRON 

We could not move a single pace, 50 

We could not see each other's face, 

But with that pale and livid light 

That made us strangers in our sight : 

And thus together — yet apart, 

Fetter'd in hand, but join'd in heart, 55 

'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 

Of the pure elements of earth. 

To hearken to each other's speech, 

And each turn comforter to each 

With some new hope, or legend old, 60 

Or song heroically bold ; 

But even these at length grew cold. 

Our voices took a dreary tone, 

An echo of the dungeon stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free, 65 

As they of yore were wont to be : 

It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 

IV 

I was the eldest of the three. 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 70 

I ought to do — and did my best — 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved. 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him, with eyes as blue as heaven — 75 

For him my soul was sorely moved ; 
And truly might it be distress'd 
To see such bird in such a nest ; 
For he was beautiful as day — 

(When day was beautiful to me 80 

As to young eagles, being free) — 

A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer's gone, 

Its sleepless summer of long light, 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 85 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON . 20/ 

And thus he was as pure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for nought but others' ills. 
And then they flovv'd like mountain rills. 
Unless he could assuage the woe 90 

Which he abhorr'd to view below. 



The other was as pure of mind, 

But form'd to combat with his kind ; 

Strong in his frame, and of a mood 

Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 95 

And perish'd in the foremost rank 

With joy : — but not in chains to pine : 
His spirit wither'd with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in sooth did mine : 100 

But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills. 

Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; 

To him his dungeon was a gulf, 105 

And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 

VI 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 

Thus much the fathom-line was sent no 

From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 

Which round about the wave enthralls : 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave 
Below the surface of the lake "S 

The dark vault lies wherein we lay, 
We heard it ripple night and day ; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 



208 • BYRON 

And I have felt the winter's spray 

Wash through the bars when winds were high 120 

And wanton in the happy sky ; 

And then the very rock hath rock'd, 
And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 

Because I could have smiled to see 

The death that would have set me free. 125 

VII 

I said my nearer brother pined, 

I said his mighty heart declined. 

He loath'd and put away his food ; 

It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 

For we were used to hunter's fare, 130 

And for the like had little care : 

The milk drawn from the mountain goat 

Was changed for water from the moat, 

Our bread was such as captives' tears 

Have moisten'd many a thousand years, 135 

Since man first pent his fellow men 

Like brutes within an iron den ; 

But what were these to us or him ? 

These wasted not his heart or limb ; 

My brother's soul was of that mould 140 

Which in a palace had grown cold, 

Had his free breathing been denied 

The range of the steep mountain's side ; 

But why delay the truth? — he died. 

I saw, and could not hold his head, 145 

Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, 

Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 

To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 

He died — and they unlock'd his chain. 

And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 150 

Even from the cold earth of our cave. 

I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 

His corse in dust whereon the day 

Might shine — it was a foolish thought. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 269 

But then within my brain it wrought, 155 

That even in death his freeborn breast 

In such a dungeon could not rest. 

I might have spared my idle prayer — 

They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there : 

The flat and turfless earth above 160 

The being we so much did love ; 

His empty chain above it leant, 

Such murder's fitting monument ! 

VIII 

But he, the favorite and the flower, 

Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 165 

His mother's image in fair face, 

The infant love of all his race, 

His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 

My latest care, for whom I sought 

To hoard my life, that his might be 170 

Less wretched now, and one day free ; 

He, too, who yet had held untired 

A spirit natural or inspired — 

He, too, was struck, and day by day 

Was wither'd on the stalk away. 175 

Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood : — 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 180 

Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of Sin delirious with its dread ; 

But these were horrors — this was woe 

Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow ; 185 

He faded, and so calm and meek. 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak. 

So tearless, yet so tender — kind. 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 190 



210 BYRON 

Was as a mockery of the tomb, 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray ; 

An eye of most transparent hght, 

That almost made the dungeon bright ; 195 

And not a word of murmur — not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise, 

For I was sunk in silence — lost 200 

In this last loss, of all the most ; 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness. 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 

I listen'd, but I could not hear — 205 

I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished ; 

I called, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 210 

And rush'd to him : — I found him not, 

/ only stirr'd in this black spot, 

/ only lived — / only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew; 

The last — the sole — the dearest link 215 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

Which bound me to my faiUng race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe : 220 

I took that hand which lay so still, 

Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 

I had not strength to stir, or strive. 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling when we know 225 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 211 



I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 



230 



IX 



What next befell me then and there 
I know not well — I never knew : 
First came the loss of light, and air, 

And then of darkness too : 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — 235 

Among the stones I stood a stone, 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist. 
As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and grey ; 
It was not night — it was not day — 240 

It was not even the dungeon-light. 
So hateful to my heavy sight. 
But vacancy absorbing space. 
And fixedness — without a place ; 
There were no stars — no earth — no time — 245 

No check — no change — no good — no crime — 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of Hfe nor death ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness. 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 250 



A light broke in upon my brain, — 

It was the carol of a bird; 
It ceased, and then it came again. 

The sweetest song ear ever heard, 
And mine was thankful till my eyes 255 

Ran over with the glad surprise. 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery ; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track ; 260 

I saw the dungeon walls and floor 



212 BYRON 

Close slowly round me as before, 

I saw the glimmer of the sun 

Creeping as it before had done, 

But through the crevice where it came 265 

That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, 

And tamer than upon the tree; 
A lovely bird, with azure wings. 
And song that said a thousand things. 

And seeni'd to say them all for me ! 270 

I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
It seem'd like me to want a mate, 
But was not half so desolate. 

And it was come to love me when 275 

None Hved to love me so again. 
And, cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free. 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 280 

But knowing well captivity. 

Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 

For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 285 
Which made me both to weep and smile — 
I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me ; 
But then at last away it flew, 

And then 'twas mortal — well I knew, 290 

For he would never thus have flown. 
And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
Lone — as the corse within its shroud, 
Lone — as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 295 

While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere, 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gny. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 213 

XI 

A kind of change came in my fate, 300 

My keepers grew compassionate ; 

I know not what had made them so, 

They were inured to sights of woe. 

But so it was : — my broken chain 

With links unfasten'd did remain, 305 

And it was Hberty to stride 

Along my cell from side to side. 

And up and down, and then athwart. 

And tread it over every part ; 

And round the pillars one by one, 310 

Returning where my walk begun, 

Avoiding only, as I trod, 

My brothers' graves without a sod ; 

For if I thought with heedless tread 

My step profaned their lowly bed, 315 

My breath came gaspingly and thick. 

And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. 



I made a footing in the wall, 

It was not therefrom to escape. 
For I had buried one and all 3^° 

Who loved me in a human shape ; 
And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me : 
No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
No partner in my misery ; 325 

I thought of this, and I was glad, 
For thought of them had made me mad ; 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
Once more upon the mountains high 33° 

The quiet of a loving eye. 

XIII 

I saw them — and they were the same, 
They were not changed like me in frame ; 



214 ' BVA'O.V 

1 saw their thousand years of snow 

On high — their wide long lake below, 335 

And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 

I heard the torrents leap and gush 

O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; 

I saw the white-wall'd distant town, 

And whiter sails go skimming down; 340 

And then there was a Httle isle, 

Which in my very face did smile. 

The only one in view ; 
A small green isle, it seem'd no more. 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 345 

But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing, 
And on it there were young flowers growing, 

Of gentle breath and hue. 350 

The fish swam by the castle wall. 
And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seemed to fly ; 355 

And then new tears came in my eye. 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain; 
And, when I did descend again, 
The darkness of my dim abode 360 

Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new-dug grave. 
Closing o'er one we sought to save, — 
And yet my glance, too much opprest, 
Had almost need of such a rest. 365 

XIV 

It might be months, or years, or days, 

I kept no count — I took no note, 
I had no hope my eyes to raise 

And clear them of their dreary mote ; 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 21 5 

At last men came to set me free ; 37° 

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where ; 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 
I learn'd to love despair. 
And thus when they appear'd at last, 375 

And all my bonds aside were cast. 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all ray own ! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home : 380 

With spiders I had friendship made. 
And watch'd them in their sullen trade, 

Had seen the mice by moonlight play. 

And why should I feel less than they? 

We were all inmates of one place, 385 

And I, the monarch of each race. 

Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 

In quiet we had learn'd to dwell : 

My very chains and I grew friends. 

So much a long communion tends 39° 

To make us what we are : — even I 

Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 

SONNET ON CHILLON 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! 

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art. 

For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 
And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 5 

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom. 

Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
Chillon ! Thy prison is a holy place. 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, « 

Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 



2l6 BYRON 

By Bonnivard ! — May none those marks efface ! 
For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



STANZAS FROM CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 

(canto IV, LXXVIII-LXXX : ROME) 

Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
Lone mother of dead empires ! and control 
In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see 
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, — Ye ! 
Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 



The Niobe of nations ! there she stands, lo 

Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe ; 
An empty urn within her wither'd hands. 
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago ; 
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 15 

Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow. 
Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. 

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire 
Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride : 20 

She saw her glories star by star expire, 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride. 
Where the car climb'd the Capitol ; fiir and wide 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : — 
Chaos of ruins ! Who shall trace the void, 25 

O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light. 
And say, "Here was, or is," where all is doubly night? 



CHILDE HAROLD 21 y 

(canto IV, cxxxix-cxLv: THE coliseum) 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
In murmur'd pity, or loud-roared applause, 
As man was slaughter 'd by his fellow- man. 
And wherefore slaughter'd? wherefore, but because 
Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, 5 

And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot? 
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 

I see before me the Gladiator lie : lo 

He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 15 

Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
The arena swims around him — he is gone. 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won. 

He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away ; 20 

He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize. 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay. 
There were his young barbarians all at play, 
There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday — 25 

All this rush'd with his blood — Shall he expire, 
And unavenged? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire ! 

But here, where murder breathed her bloody steam ; 

And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, 

And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain-stream 30 

Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 

Here where the Roman million's blame or praise 

Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd. 

My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint rays 



2l8 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 

On the arena void — seats crushed — walls bow'd — 35 

And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. 

A ruin — yet what ruin ! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd ; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 

And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. 40 

Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd? 
Alas ! develop'd, opens the decay, 
When the colossal fabric's form is near'd ; 
It will not bear the brightness of the day, 
Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft away. 45 

But when the rising moon begins to climb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, 
And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear, 50 

Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head ; 
When the light shines serene but doth not glare, 
Then in this magic circle raise the dead : 
Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust ye tread. 

" While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand ; 55 

When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ; 
And when Rome falls — the World." From our own land 
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 

Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still 60 

On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; 
Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill. 
The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or what ye will. 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (i 792-1 822) 

The quality of Shelley's genius and the peculiarity of his work are 
such that probably no great English poet lends himself to criticism less 
easily than he. His poetry is so iridescent, so ethereal, so far removed 
from the ordinary standards of technique, that it practically defies 
analysis. Shelley was sensitive, refined, and still fervid, impelled by a 



PERCY BYSSIIE SHELLEY 219 

daring independence that accords oddly with his dreamy spiritual na- 
ture. From his earliest youth he was a striking figure. Of imagination 
all compact, innocent at heart, and generous of disposition, he is at the 
same time unpractical in thought, impatient of restraint, and, from 
the first, rebellious against constituted authority, at war with existing 
institutions, a self-elected prophet stirred with the passion of reforming 
the world. To his mind the church, the state, the social order — all 
were corrupt, results of tyranny and superstition, and, as such, to be 
swept aside. Accordingly he denounced the marriage bond, declared 
himself an atheist, and labored in splendid but nebulous verse to realize 
his " visions of humanity made perfect " ; to build an earthly tabernacle 
of heavenly liberty and of love and unity among the nations. All this 
marks the irresponsibility of boyish enthusiasm. 

But when we study his poetry for its own sake, we forget the man in 
our admiration of the poet, for it is poetry such as the world has rarely 
seen : not philosophical like that of Wordsworth or Browning, nor pop- 
ular like that of Burns or Tennyson, but suffused with a creative beauty, 
of a purely poetical quality which has appeared in no other English poet 
with the exception of Spenser, and, to a lesser degree, of Keats. Its 
dazzling images, its rapid rhythms, its grace and delicacy of touch, its 
exquisite melodies and harmonies, win us to forget the quixotic vagaries 
of the reformer in the perfection of the artist. The last years of Shelley 
were his best. His excesses of thought and style seemed to be passing 
under the yoke. His constant reading and study were bringing him into 
greater sympathy and conformity with the world. Had it not been for his 
early tragical death, it is difficult to estimate to what heights his poetic 
genius might have attained ; but still his lack of sound sense, his un- 
certainty of moral balance, must always have alienated from him the 
confidence of practical men. 

1792-1818. —Shelley was born in August, 1792, near Horsham in 
the county of Sussex. His father. Sir Timothy Shelley, was a typically 
conservative, practical country squire, never in the least degree able to 
understand or appreciate his bnlliant|son. At the age of thirteen the boy 
was sent to Eton, where he was noted for his impatience of restraint and 
his independent spirit, as well as for the astonishing ease with which he 
mastered the classics and other favorite subjects of his course. When 
eighteen years old he entered Oxford ; but his sceptical beliefs, and 
especially his publication of a pamphlet entitled The IVecessity for Athe- 
istii, brought about his expulsion within a year. From Oxford he went to 
London, where, about his nineteenth birthday, he met and eloped with a 
schoolmate of his sisters — a girl three years younger than himself. 
After his marriage he wandered with his girl-wife through various parts 
of England, Wales, and Ireland, and during this time composed his first 



220 SHELLEY 

long (and somewhat crude) poem, Queen Mab. Returning to London 
in 1 813. he became intimate with the family of William Godwin, a well- 
known radical thinker of the time, who doubtless strengthened Shelley 
in his revolutionary principles. The next year, influenced by his irre- 
sponsible views concerning matrimonial obligations, he deserted his young 
wife, and, on her tragic death two years later, married Mary Godwin for 
whom he had already formed an attachment. These events naturally 
estranged the British public from Shelley, who, after the publication of 
two or three important poems which were somewhat coldly received, 
finally left England for Italy. This was in 1818, when he was in his 
twenty-sixth year. 

1818-1822. — These were the most important years of Shelley's life. 
Much of the time was spent in the company of Byron, whom he had 
previously met on a visit to Switzerland in 1816. Beside many shorter 
poems, such as the Skylark, the Cloud., the Ode to the West Wind, and 
the Ode to Liberty., he produced, during these years, two great tragedies, 
Prometheus Unbound and The Cenci. In 1 821, the last year of his life, 
he wrote his Adonais, upon the death of Keats — a poem which ranks 
with Milton's Lycidas and Tennyson's In Memoriam, as one of the best 
elegies in the English language. In July of the next year, 1822, when 
not yet thirty years of age, Shelley was drowned while sailing in the 
Gulf of Leghorn. His body was discovered after a few days, and, in 
accordance with an ancient custom, cremated on the shore where it was 
found. The ashes were then gathered up and buried beside those of 
Keats in the litde English cemetery at Rome. 

Shelley's longer poems are for the most part so obscure and so far 
beyond and beside the facts and experiences of everyday life that it is 
very difficult to enter into his world. But many of his lyrics and shorter 
poems are free from this aloofness and obscurity; and from them the 
reader will most readily learn the wonderful force of the poet's genius. 
Of these shorter lyrics the best known are those written during the last 
years of his life. Though his Ce7ici shows astonishing dramatic power, 
and his reflective poems great beauty, he excels especially as a poet of 
the emotional or presentative type. 

ODE TO THE WEST WIND 



O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, 
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. 



ODE TO THE WEST WIND 221 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O thou, 5 

Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, 
Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill lo 

(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
With living hues and odours plain and hill : 

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere ; 
Destroyer and preserver ; hear, oh, hear ! 



Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, 15 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed. 
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning : there are spread 

On the blue surface of thine airy surge. 

Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 20 

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge 

Of the horizon to the zenith's height, 

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 

Of the dying year, to which this closing night 

Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 25 

Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere 

Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst : oh, hear ! 

Ill 

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams 

The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 30 

Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams. 



222 SHELLEY 

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 

All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers 35 

So sweet the sense faints picturing them ! Thou 
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 

The sea-blooms and the oozy woods, which wear 

The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 40 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, 
And tremble and despoil themselves : oh, hear ! 

IV 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; 

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; 

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 45 

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than thou, O uncontrollable ! If even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven. 

As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed 50 

Scarce seemed a vision ; I would ne'er have striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed ,5 

One too like thee : tameless, and swift, and proud. 



Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : 
What if my leaves are falling like its own ! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 



TO A SKYLARK 223 

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, 60 

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, 
My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one ! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 

Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth ! 

And, by the incantation of this verse, 65 

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! 
Be through my lips to unawakened earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy ! O wind, 

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 70 



TO A SKYLARK 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit — 

Bird thou never wert — 
That from Heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou w ingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun. 
O'er which clouds are bright'ning, 
Thou dost float and run ; 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight; 
Like a star of heaven. 

In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, — but yet I hear thy shrill delight, 



224 Shelley 

Keen as are the arrows 
Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narrows 
In the white dawn clear, 
Until we hardly see — we feel that it is there. 25 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud, 
As, when Night is bare. 

From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflowed. 30 

What thou art we know not ; 

What is most like thee ? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 

Drops so bright to see 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 35 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not : 40 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, — which overflows her bower : 45 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew. 
Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view : 50 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves. 
By warm winds deflowered, 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves : 55 



TO A SKYLARK 225 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, . 
Rain-awakened flowers, — 
All that ever was 
Joyous and clear and fresh, — thy music doth surpass. 60 

Teach us, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine : 
I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 65 

Chorus hymenaeal, 

Or triumphal chaunt, 
Matched with thine, would be all 
But an empty vaunt, — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 70 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain ? 
What fields or waves or mountains ? 

What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of pain ? 75 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be : 
Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest — but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 80 

Waking or asleep 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream — 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? 85 

We look before and after. 
And pine for what is not : 

Q 



226 SHELLEY 

Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 90 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate and pride and fear, 
If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 95 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound. 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found, 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground 1 100 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 

From my lips would flow, 
The world should listen then — as I am listening now. 105 

THE CLOUD 

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 

From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet buds every one, 
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under, 10 

And then again I dissolve it in rain. 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 
And their great pines groan aghast ; 



THE CLOUD 227 

And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 15 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, 

Lightning my pilot sits ; 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, 

It struggles and howls at fits ; 20 

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion. 

This pilot is guiding me, 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea ; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 25 

Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 

The Spirit he loves remains ; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile. 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 30 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 

And his burning plumes outspread, 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 

When the morning star shines dead ; 
As on the jag of a mountain crag, 35 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 

Its ardors of rest and of love, 4° 

And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above, 
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, 45 

Whom mortals call the Moon, 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor. 

By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. 

Which only the angels hear, 50 



228 SHELLEY 

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 

The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 55 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 60 

The volcanos are dim, and the stars reel and swim. 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, — 65 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch, through which I march, 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, 

Is the million-colored bow ; 70 

The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, 

While the moist earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursling of the sky ; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; 75 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when with never a stain 

The pavilion of heaven is bare, 
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams 

Build up the blue dome of air, 80 

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, — 

And out of the caverns of rain, 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 

I arise and unbuild it again. 



TO NIGHT 229 

TO NIGHT 



Swiftly walk over the western wave, 

Spirit of Night ! 
Out of the misty eastern cave, 
Where, all the long and lone daylight, 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear. 
Which make thee terrible and dear, — 

Swift be thy flight ! 



Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day ; 10 

Kiss her until she be wearied out : 
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 

Come, long-sought ! 

Ill 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 15 

I sighed for thee ; 
When light rode high, and the dew was gone, 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree. 
And the weary Day turned to his rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 20 

I sighed for thee. 

IV 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 

" Wouldst thou me ? " 
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed. 
Murmured like a noontide bee, 25 

" Shall I nestle at thy side ? 
Wouldst thou me ? " — and I replied, 

' No, not thee ! " 



230 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Death will come when thou art dead, 

Soon, too soon ; 30 

Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night, — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 

Come soon, soon ! 35 



3. A POET OF THE ESTHETIC TRANSITION 

In not a few histories of English poetry the name of keats has been 
linked with the names of Byron and Shelley. This classification is, 
however, misleading; for, aside from the shortness of his career, his 
youthful view of life, and the accidental fact that he was an exact con- 
temporary, Keats has little in common with the other two. It is true that, 
like Shelley, Keats was a thorough artist, entirely devoted to his art, 
instinct with imagination and the love of beauty. But whereas Shelley 
is "something remote and afar," and has, therefore, few followers in the 
development of English poetry, Keats constitutes a very important 
factor in that development. Stopford Brooke says of him that he 
" went back to Spenser and especially to Shakespeare's minor poems 
to find his inspiration ; to Greek and mediaeval life to find his subjects, 
and established, in doing so, that which has been called the literary 
poetry of England." And Saintsbury calls Keats " the forerunner of 
Tennyson, and through Tennyson, of all English poets since ; the 
fiither of every English poet born within the century, who has not been 
a mere exception. He, as did no one of his own contemporaries, felt, 
expressed, and handed on the exact change wrought in English poetry 
by the great Romantic movement." And thus to link the poetry of 
the future to the best in the poetic achievements of the past was the 
mission of John Keats. With him poetry was supreme; it existed 
not as an instrument of social revolt nor of philosophical doctrine, 
but for the expression of beauty. Real poetry is not of any school. 
Its sweetness and its grace are Romantic and Classical alike. Freedom 
of conception and restraint of style are the twin servitors of the beauty 
for which poetry exists. This is the aesthetic view of literary art handed 
down not only to Tennyson, but to Rossetti, Morris, Swinburne, and 
more or less adopted by them from Keats. 



JOHN KEATS 23 1 

JOHN KEATS (1795-1821) 

" Beauty is truth, truth beauty, — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." 

In these words is well expressed the poetical creed of John Keats, — 
passionate lover of beauty in all her phases, prophet and poet of the 
senses and their delights. Though his limited conditions shut him out 
from any direct acquaintance with the beauties of Grecian literature and 
art, he was nevertheless a Greek to the core of his beauty-worshipping 
nature. Though he could have known but little of mediaeval literature, 
few have grasped better than he the delightful spirit of mediaeval 
romance. His genius for the felicitous use of words is no less unerring 
than his instinct for the beautiful in the world of tastes and smells, 
sights and sounds. Like Spenser and Shelley, he is one of the most 
truly poetical of poets ; like the former, at any rate, he drew his inspira- 
tion from the enchanted regions of the past. It is true that the poetry 
of Keats is lacking in that deeper thought and spiritual uplift which we 
associate with the very highest order of poetry. But it is also true that 
this young poet died when barely twenty-five years of age, before he 
had fully outgrown his youthful faults, or developed the wisdom and 
high seriousness which are necessary to one who would rank with the 
first of poets. And, still, according to Matthew Arnold, " no one in 
English poetry, save Shakespeare, has quite the fascinating felicity of 
Keats, his perfection of loveliness." 

1795-1817. — Keats was born in London, October, 1795. His father, 
a livery-stable keeper in humble circumstances, in some way managed 
to send his son, then seven or eight years old, to a very fair school just 
outside of London, where the lad secured an elementary knowledge of 
Latin, and a very fair acquaintance, through dictionaries and transla- 
tions, with classical mythology. When fifteen years of age, having lost 
his father and mother, the boy was apprenticed to a surgeon, with whom 
he worked and studied for five years. He had little love for the profes- 
sion, however, and, after spending two more years in the hospitals of 
London, he abandoned it altogether. In his schoolboy days Keats 
had made friends who first awakened his love for poetry by lending 
him books, — the works of Chaucer, Chapman's Homer, and the Faerie 
Queene of Spenser; these same friends now introduced young Keats to 
Leigh Hunt and Shelley and other literary folk of London. About this 
time, 1817, when twenty-two years old, Keats brought out his first vol- 
ume of verse — a collection crude and amateurish, as a whole, yet con- 
taining one of the finest of all English sonnets, On First Looking into 
Chap>nan''s Homer. 



232 KEATS 

1817-1821. — In 1818, while still in his twenty-third year, Keats pro- 
duced his Endyiiiion^ a poem with many faults of immaturity, but in no 
wise deserving of the fierce assaults it called forth from the literary 
reviews of the time. Notwithstanding these attacks, the poet worked 
on with unabated vigor, and in 1820 published, among other poems, 
Hyperion, which shows the influence of Milton, The Eve of St. Agnes, 
and the Ode to a Grecian Urn. About this time the seeds of consump- 
tion, which he had inherited, began to develop, and he soon knew that 
his days were numbered. In September, 1820, after publishing still 
another volume, the poet set sail for Italy, in the hope that the milder 
climate might prolong his life. In vain ; in February of the next year 
he died, and was buried in the Protestant cemetery in Rome. 

The poetic development of Keats was very sure and rapid. P'rom 
the first, much of his verse shows a surprising energy and freshness ; 
his later poems fully reveal the sense of color and form which so distin- 
guishes his poetry at its best. Of all his poems, perhaps the most 
delightful are the odes, O71 a Grecian Urn and To a Nightingale, and 
the metrical romance, The Eve of St. Agnes, which has recently been 
called " the latest and most perfect flowering of the old Spenserian 
tree." 

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 



St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers while he told 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
Like pious incense from a censer old, 
Seem'd taking flight for heaven without a death. 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. 



His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; 
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, 
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan. 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : 
The sculptur'd dead on each side seem to freeze, 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 233 

Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: 15 

Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, 
He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 

Ill 

Northward he turneth through a little door, 
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue 20 

Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor ; 
But no — already had his death-bell rung; 
The joys of all his life were said and sung ; 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve : 
Another way he went, and soon among 25 

Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. 
And all night kept awake, for sinner's sake to grieve. 

IV 

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft ; 
And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide, 
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 30 

The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide : 
The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests : 
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed. 

Stared, where upon their head the cornice rests, 35 

With hair blown black, and wings out cross-wise on their breasts. 



At length burst in the argent revelry, 
With plume, tiara, and all rich array, 
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 

The brain, new-stuffd, in youth, with triumphs gay 40 

Of old romance. These let us wish away. 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, 
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, 
On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care, 
As she had heard old dames full many times declare. 45 



234 



KEA 7'S 



VI 



They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of delight, 
And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honey'd middle of the night, 
If ceremonies due they did aright ; 50 

As, supperless to bed they must retire, 
And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; 
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. 

VII 

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline : 55 

The music, yearning like a God in pain, 
She scarcely heard : her maiden eyes divine, 
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
Pass by — she heeded not at all : in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 60 

And back retir'd, not cool'd by high disdain, 
But she saw not : her heart was otherwhere ; 
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. 



She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes. 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short : 65 

The hallow'd hour was near at hand : she sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort 
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport, 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
Hoodwink'd with faery fancy, all amort, 70 

Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn. 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 

IX 

So, purposing each moment to retire, 

She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, 

Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 75 



THE EVE OE ST. AGNES 235 

For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
But for one moment in the tedious hours, 
That he might gaze and worship all unseen, So 

Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such things have been. 



He ventures in : let no buzz'd whisper tell : 
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
Will storm his heart. Love's fev'rous citadel : 
For him those chambers held barbarian hordes, 85 

Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
Against his lineage : not one breast affords 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, 
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. go 



Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came, 
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. 
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame. 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 

The sound of merriment and chorus bland : 95 

He startled her ; but soon she knew his face, 
And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand, 
Saying, " Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from this place ; 
They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race ! 

XII 

" Get hence ! get hence ! there's dwarfish Hildebrand ; 100 

He had a fever late, and in the fit 

He cursed thee and thine, both house and land : 

Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 

More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me ! flit ! 

Flit like a ghost away." — " Ah, Gossip dear, 105 



236 KEATS 

We're safe enough ; here in this arm-chair sit, 
And tell me how " — " Good Saints ! not here, not here : 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." 

XIII 

He folio w'd through a lowly arched way, 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume ; no 

And as she mutter'd ** VVell-a — well-a-day ! " 
He found him in a little moonlight room. 
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
" Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
" O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 115 

Which none but secret sisterhood may see. 
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." 

XIV 

* St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve — 
Yet men will murder upon holy days : 

Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 120 

And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 
To venture so : it fills me with amaze 
To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! 
God's help ! my lady fair the conjuror plays 
This very night : good angels her deceive ! 125 

But let me laugh awhile, Pve mickle time to grieve." 

XV 

Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon. 
While Porphyro upon her face doth look, 
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 

Who keepeth closed a wond'rous riddle-book, 130 

As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told 
His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could brook 
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, 
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 135 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 237 

XVI 

Sudden a thought came Hke a full-blown rose, 
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 
Made purple riot : then doth he propose 
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start : 
" A cruel man and impious thou art : 140 

Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and dream 
Alone with her good angels, far apart 
From wicked men hke thee. Go, go ! I deem 
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem." 

xvn 

" I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," 145 

Quoth Porphyro : " O may I ne'er find grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 
Or look with ruffian passion in her face : 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 150 

Or I will, even in a moment's space, 
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, 
And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears." 

XVIII 

" Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? 
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing, 155 

Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll ; 
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening. 
Were never miss'd." Thus plaining, doth she bring 
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro, 
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, 160 

That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 

XIX 

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy. 

Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 

Him in a closet, of such privacy 165 



238 KEATS 

That he might see her beauty unespied, 
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, 
While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet, 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
Never on such a night have lovers met, 170 

Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. 

XX 

" It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame : 
" All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
Quickly on this feast-night : by the tambour frame 
Her own lute thou wilt see : no time to spare, 175 

For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience ; kneel in prayer 
The while : Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed, 
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." iSo 

XXI 

So saying she hobbled off with busy fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd ; 
The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear 
To follow her, with aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 1S5 

Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and chaste : 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. 

XXII 

Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade, 190 

Old Angela was feeling for the stair. 

When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, 

Rose, Hke a mission'd spirit, unaware : 

With silver taper's light, and pious care, 

She turn'd, and down the ag^d gossip led 195 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 239 

To a safe level matting. Now prepare, 
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ; 
She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled. 

XXIII 

Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died : 200 

She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide : 
No utter'd syllable, or woe betide ! 
But to her heart her heart was voluble, 
Paining with eloquence her balmy side; 205 

As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. 

XXIV 

A casement high and triple-arch'd there was. 
All garlanded with carven imag'ries 
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, 210 

And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings ; 
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 215 

A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings. 

XXV 

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, 
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, 
As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon ; 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 220 

And on her silver cross soft amethyst. 
And on her hair a glory, like a saint : 
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest. 
Save wings, for heaven : — Porphyro grew faint : 
She knelt so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. 225 



240 KEA TS 

XXVI 

Anon his heart revives : her vespers done, 
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees, 
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one, 
Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees 
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees : 230 

Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed. 
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, 
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 



Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 235 

In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd 
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; 
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day. 
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain, 240 

Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray, 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 

XXVIII 

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 245 

And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, 
And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept, 
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 250 

And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept, 
And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo ! — how fast she slept. 



Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon 
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 24 1 

A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon 255 

A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — 
O for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion. 
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet. 
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — 260 

The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 

XXX 

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 
In blanched hnen, smooth, and lavender'd, 
While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd, 265 

With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon. 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
From Fez, and spiced dainties, every one, 
From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. 270 

XXXI 

These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreathed silver : sumptuous they stand 
In the retired quiet of the night. 

Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — 275 

" And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! 
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite : 
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." 

XXXII 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 2S0 

Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 

By the dusk curtains : — 'twas a midnight charm 

Impossible to melt as iced stream : 

The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; 

Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : 2S5 

R 



242 KEA TS 

It seem'd he never, never could redeem 
From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. 

XXXIII 

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be, 290 

He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, 
In Provence call'd " La belle dame sans mercy : " 
Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan : 
He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly 295 

Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone : 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. 

XXXIV 

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : 
There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd 300 

The blisses of her dream so pure and deep ; 
At which fair Madeline began to weep, 
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; 
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; 
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, 305 

Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. 

XXXV 

" Ah, Porphyro ! " she said, " but even now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, 
Made tuneable with every sweetest vow ; 
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear : 310 

How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill, and drear ! 
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear ! 
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe. 
For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go." 315 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 243 

XXXVI 

Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far 
At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 
Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star 
Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 320 

Blendeth its odour with the violet, — 
Solution sweet : meantime the frost-wind blows 
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet 
Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set. 

XXXVII 

'Tis dark : quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet : 325 

"This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! " 
'Tis dark : the iced gusts still rave and beat : 
" No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! 
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. — 
Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring? 330 

I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, 
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing — 
A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing." 



" My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! 
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? 335 

Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed ? 
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
After so many hours of toil and quest, 
A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 340 

Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 

XXXIX 

" Hark ! 'tis an elfin storm from faery land, 

Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 

Arise — arise ! the morning is at hand ; — 345 

The bloated wassailers will never heed : — 



244 ^^^ ^-^ 

Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead : 
Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be, 350 

For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." 

XL 

She hurried at his words, beset with fears, 
For there were sleeping dragons all around. 
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears ; 
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found ; 355 
In all the house was heard no human sound. 
A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door ; 
The arras, rich with horsemen, hawk, and hound, 
Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar ; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 360 

XLI 

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ; 
Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide. 
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl. 
With a huge empty flagon by his side : 
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, 365 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : 
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide : — 
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ; 
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. 

XLII 

And they are gone : ay, ages long ago 370 

These lovers fled away into the storm. 
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe. 
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form 
Of witch, and demon, and large coflin-worm. 
Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old 375 

Died palsy-tvvitch'd, with meagre face deform ; 
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, 
For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 245 

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 



My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 5 

But being too happy in thine happiness, — 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 

Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 10 

II 

O, for a draught of vintage ! that hath been 

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
Tasting of Flora and the country-green. 

Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth ! 
O for a beaker full of the warm South, 15 

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stained mouth ; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 

And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 20 

III 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, gray hairs, 25 

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies ; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-ey'd despairs. 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 30 



246 KEA TS 



Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
Already with thee ! tender is the night, 35 

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays ; 
But here there is no light. 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 40 



I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs. 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; 45 

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; 
And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. 

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 50 



VI 

Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

To take into the air my quiet breath, 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, — 55 

To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy ! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 

To thy high requiem become a sod. 60 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 247 



Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 65 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 70 

VIII 

Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self 1 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 

As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 75 

Past the near meadows, over the still stream. 
Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 

Fled is that music : — Do I wake or sleep ? 



So 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 



Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, 

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : 
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape 

Of deities or mortals, or of both. 
In Tempfe or the dales of Arcady ? 
What men or gods are these ? What maidens loth ? 

What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ? 
What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstasy ? 



248 KEA rs 



Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; 

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss. 
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 



Ah ! happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied. 

For ever piping songs for ever new ; 
More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 25 

For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, 
For ever panting, and for ever young ; 
All breathing human passion far above, 

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, 

A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 30 



Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ? 
What little town by river or sea shore, 35 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 

Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 

Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 40 



LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 249 



O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
With forest branches and the trodden weed ; 

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought 
As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 45 

When old age shall this generation waste, 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 

" Beauty is truth, truth beauty, — that is all 

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." 50 

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 



Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight. 
Alone and palely loitering? 

The sedge is wither'd from the lake, 
And no birds sing. 



Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, 
So haggard and so woe-begone ? 

The squirrel's granary is full, 
And the harvest's done. 



I see a lily on thy brow. 

With anguish moist and fever dew; 
And on thy cheek a fading rose 

Fast withereth too. 

IV 

I met a lady in the meads, 
Full beautiful, a faery's child ; 

Her hair was long, her foot was light. 
And her eyes were wild. 



250 KEATS 



I set her on my pacing steed, 

And nothing else saw all day long ; 

For sideways would she lean and sing 
A faery's song. 



I made a garland for her head, 

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ; 

She look'd at me as she did love, 
And made sweet moan. 



VII 

She found me roots of relish sweet, 25 

And honey wild, and manna dew ; 
And sure in language strange she said, 

I love thee true. 



She took me to her elfin grot. 

And there she gaz'd and sighed deep ; 30 

And there I shut her wild sad eyes — 

So kissed to sleep. 

IX 

And there we slumber'd on the moss, 

And there I dream'd, ah woe betide. 
The latest dream I ever dream'd, 35 

On the cold hill side. 



I saw pale kings, and princes too, 

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ; 

Who cry'd — " La belle Dame sans merci 

Hath thee in thrall ! " 40 



SONNETS 251 



XI 



I saw their starv'd lips in the gloom, 
With horrid warning gaped wide, 

And I awoke, and found me here 
On the cold hill side. 



XII 



And this is why I sojourn here 45 

Alone and palely loitering, 
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake 

And no birds sing. 

SONNETS 

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, 

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen : 

Round many western islands have I been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 5 

That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne : 

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : 
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 

When a new planet swims into his ken ; ic 

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 

He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — 

Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 

ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET 

The poetry of earth is never dead : 

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, 
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead ; 



252 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 

That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead 5 

In summer luxury, — he has never done 

With his delights; for, when tired out with fun, 
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 
The poetry of earth is ceasing never : 

On a lone winter evening, when the frost 10 

Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills 
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, 

And seems to one in drowsiness half lost. 
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. 

4. THE VICTORIAN POETS 

It is practically impossible to condense into the limits of a brief sketch 
any detailed account of this last period of the history of English poetry. 
It is also doubtful whether an age so near us, indeed in most respects 
our own, so complex in its interests and so multiform in its achieve- 
ments, can be made the subject of any general criticism which will 
stand the test of time. The Victorian era is characterized by social 
change and intellectual activity. Education has been vastly extended, 
and the power and importance of literature correspondingly increased. 
New problems have been constantly arising ; and much of the poetry 
of the age has consciously or unconsciously been concerned with a 
solution of these problems : with fresh adjustments in society, wiser 
ideals in politics, a wider outlook in religion, the successive revelations 
of science. Hence, an earnestness of tone, a deliberative manner, a 
rapt seriousness, in our later poetry, rather in excess of that which has 
characterized other ages. Still the Romantic tendency of poetry con- 
tinues, as one critic well expresses it, " in the novelty and variety of its 
form, in its search after undiscovered springs of beauty and truth, in 
its emotional and imaginative intensity." 

As regards poetical importance, the age takes rank as little inferior to 
that of Shakespeare ; perhaps equal to that of Wordsworth. It has been 
especially distinguished by the names of tennyson and browning, and 
by the lesser glory of such poets as Arnold and morris, swinburne, 
MRS. browning, and the rossettis ; but we shall first turn to one who, 
by his encyclopaedic culture, his genial optimism and bluff acceptance 
of the spirit of his age, well represents the earlier and less poetical por- 
tion of this period : one who, writing in the martial style of Scott, 
endowed his heroes not merely with manly courage, but with manly char- 
acter, with noble devotion to a righteous cause ; one who may safely be 



THOMAS BASING TON MA CAUL AY 253 

called the most brilliant ballad-writer of his age. There are poets' 
poets and poets of the learned ; but the poets of the people deserve no 
less to be remembered than they. For the poets of the people are also 
the poets of the boys — of those who are to be the fathers of the suc- 
ceeding race. " If the boys of England," says Mr. Miles, and we may 
add " of America," " could be polled as to their favorite poet. Sir Walter 
Scott and Lord Macaulay would doubtless divide the honors ; and if 
the favorite poem were in question, Horatiits would probably be voted 
first." 

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY (1800-1859) 

Macaulay, unlike most of the other authors with whom we have been 
dealing, was principally a writer of prose. His work as essayist and 
historian so overshadows his other activities that he is ordinarily not 
thought of as a poet at all. It has, in fact, been the practice of many 
critics to follow the lead of Matthew Arnold in treating Macaulay's 
verse with something very much like contempt. However, as Saints- 
bury and others have justly replied, those who fail to see the true poetic 
quality in this vigorous and eloquent verse only prove the limitations 
in the range of their own poetic sympathies. Macaulay 's poems are 
not addressed to the ear of the critic, although their vivid pictures and 
stirring metrical form ought to place them above even the critic's cen- 
sure. They do not aim to expound the deeper significance of life, nor 
its subtler emotions ; but to express in language bravely unadorned but 
wondrously effective the nobler passions of the simple soul. They are 
gloriously popular, and have moved the hearts and fired the imaginations 
of many readers for whom Keats or Browning or even Milton would 
have little message. The volume of Macaulay 's poetry was very slight : 
a few early pieces, for the most part little known ; several martial poems 
such as Ivry^ The Battle of Naseby, and The Armada, also of this early 
period ; and, finally, the famous ballads of 1842, — Ho>-atins, The Battle 
of Lake Regillus, Virginia, and The Prophecy of Capys, — together 
known as the Lays of Ancient Rome. Macaulay's life is not intimately 
associated with the history of poetry, but it is nevertheless one of the 
most interesting and inspiring in the roll of English men of letters. 

1800-1825. — Born in Leicestershire, October, 1800, Macaulay was 
the eldest of nine children. His parents were people of education and 
refinement : the mother of Quaker descent, the father a rigid Scotch 
Presbyterian and prominent abolitionist. The stories of the boy's pre- 
cocity are something marvellous. It is said that at the age of three he 
was "an incessant reader." Before he was eight "he was a historian 
and a poet." By the time he was fifteen he could read in at least six 
languages. His memory was no less wonderful than his capacity for 



2 54 MACAULAY 

learning. His earlier education was received at home and in schools 
near home. He entered Trinity College, Cambridge, at the age of 
eighteen, and in 1824 he was made a Fellow of his college. During the 
earlier years of his college course he wrote two prize poems, and, in the 
later, a number of critical essays. 

1825-1838. — In 1825 appeared Macaulay's famous essay on /J////^;/, 
the tirst of a long series which he wrote for the Edinburgh Review. 
His abilities as a writer, recognized from the first, soon brought him to 
the attention of the Whigs; and in 1830 he was given a seat in Parlia- 
ment, where we soon hear of him as an active and successful advocate 
of the famous "Reform Bill" of 1832. In 1834 he was sent to India 
as a member of the Supreme Council. Here he remained nearly five 
years, achieving several important governmental reforms, and amassing 
a considerable fortune. 

1838-1859. — Back in England again, he was at once elected to 
Parliament from Edinburgh — a position which he held, first for nine, 
and again later for four, years. All this time he was a contributor of 
critical and biographical essays to the Edinburgh Review ; during the 
latter portion of it he was also employed in writing his celebrated Nis- 
tory of England. In 1842 his Z.«/j of Ancient Rome appeared; the 
next year, a volume of his collected essays; in 1848, the first two vol- 
umes of his History. When he was fifty-seven years of age, he was 
made a peer, and chose as his title " Baron Macaulay of Rothley." 
Two years later he died and was buried in the Poets' Corner of West- 
minster Abbey. In his later life he had been the recipient of many 
distinguished honors, both at home and abroad — honors well merited 
by the energetic, generous, brilliant man of letters. 

The general reader may be sure of finding pleasure in almost any of 
Macaulay's poems, for all are simple, manly, chivalrous ; the poetry 
of the clarion-call. Among the earlier pieces, Ivry is probably the 
best ; while of the Lays the choice would seem to lie between Virginia 
and Horatius. The latter is included in this volume, as undoubtedly 
the best known and most typical of the four. 

HORATIUS 

A LAY MADE ABOUT THE YEAR OF THE CITY CCCLX 
I 

Lars Porsena of Clusium 

By the Nine Gods he swore 
That the great house of Tarquin 

Sliould suffer wrong no more. 



H OR ATI us 255 



By the Nine Gods he swore it, 

And named a trysting day, 
And bade his messengers ride forth, 
East and west and south and north, 
To summon his array. 



East and west and south and north 10 

The messengers ride fast. 
And tower and town and cottage 

Have heard the trumpet's blast. 
Shame on the false Etruscan 

Who lingers in his home, 15 

When Porsena of Clusium 

Is on the march for Rome. 

Ill 

The horsemen and the footmen 

Are pouring in amain 
From many a stately market-place ; 20 

From many a fruitful plain \ 
From many a lonely hamlet. 

Which, hid by beech and pine, 
Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest 

Of purple Apennine ; 25 

IV 

From lordly Volaterrse, 

Where scowls the far-famed hold 
Piled by the hands of giants 

For godlike kings of old ; 
From seagirt Populonia, 30 

Whose sentinels descry 
Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops 

Fringing the southern sky ; 

V 

From the proud mart of Pisse, 

Queen of the western waves, 35 



256 MACAULAY 



Where ride Massilia's triremes 

Heavy with fair-haired slaves ; 
From where sweet Clanis wanders 

Through corn and vine and flowers ; 
From where Cortona hfts to heaven 40 

Her diadem of towers. 



VI 

Tall are the oaks whose acorns 

Drop in dark Auser's rill ; 
Fat are the stags that champ the boughs 

Of the Ciminian hill ; 45 

Beyond all streams Clitumnus 

Is to the herdsman dear ; 
Best of all pools the fowler loves 

The great Volsinian mere. 



VII 

But now no stroke of woodman 50 

Is heard by Auser's rill ; 
No hunter tracks the stag's green path 

Up the Ciminian hill ; 
Unwatched along Clitumnus 

Grazes the milk-white steer ; 55 

Unharmed the water fowl may dip 

In the Volsinian mere. 

VIII 

The harvests of Arretium, 

This year, old men shall reap, 
This year, young boys in Umbro 60 

Shall plunge the struggling sheep ; 
And in the vats of Luna, 

This year, the must shall foam 
Round the white feet of laughing girls 

Whose sires have marched to Rome. 65 



H OR Anus 257 



There be thirty chosen prophets, 

The wisest of the land, 
Who always by Lars Porsena 

Both morn and evening stand : 
Evening and morn the Thirty 70 

Have turned the verses o'er, 
Traced from the right on linen white 

By mighty seers of yore. 



And with one voice the Thirty 

Have their glad answer given : 75 

"Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena; 

Go forth, beloved of Heaven ; 
Go, and return in glory 

To Clusium's royal dome ; 
And hang round Nurscia's altars 80 

The golden shields of Rome." 

XI 

And now hath every city 

Sent up her tale of men ; 
The foot are fourscore thousand, 

. The horse are thousands ten : 85 

Before the gates of Sutrium 

Is met the great array. 
A proud man was Lars Porsena 

Upon the trysting day. 

XII 

For all the Etruscan armies 90 

Were ranged beneath his eye, 
And many a banished Roman, 

And many a stout ally; 
And with a mighty following 

To join the muster came 95 



258 MACAULAY 

The Tusculan Mamilius, 
Prince of the Latian name. 

XIII 

But by the yellow Tiber 

Was tumult and affright : 
From all the spacious champaign . 100 

To Rome men took their flight. 
A mile around the city, 

The throng stopped up the ways : 
A fearful sight it was to see 

Through two long nights and days. 105 



For aged folks on crutches, 

And women great with child, 
And mothers sobbing over babes 

That clung to them and smiled, 
And sick men borne in litters no 

High on the necks of slaves. 
And troops of sun-burned husbandmen 

With reaping-hooks and staves, 

XV 

And droves of mules and asses 

Laden with skins of wine, ' 115 

And endless flocks of goats and sheep. 

And endless herds of kine. 
And endless trains of waggons 

That creaked beneath the weight 
Of corn-sacks and of household goods, 120 

Choked every roaring gate. 

XVI 

Now, from the rock Tarpeian, 

Could the wan burghers spy 
The line of blazing villages 

Red in the midnight sky. 125 



HORA TIUS 



259 



The Fathers of the City, 

They sat all night and day, 
For every hour some horseman came 

With tidings of dismay. 

XVII 

To eastward and to westward 130 

Have spread the Tuscan bands ; 
Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote 

In Crustumerium stands. 
Verbenna down to Ostia 

Hath wasted all the plain ; 135 

Astur hath stormed Janiculum, 

And the stout guards are slain. 



I wis, in all the Senate, 

There was no heart so bold. 
But sore it ached and fast it beat, 140 

When that ill news was told. 
Forthwith up rose the Consul, 

Up rose the Fathers all ; 
In haste they girded up their gowns, 

And hied them to the wall. 145 

XIX 

They held a council standing 

Before the River-Gate ; 
Short time was there, ye well may guess, 

For musing or debate. 
Out spake the Consul roundly : 150 

" The bridge must straight go down ; 
For, since Janiculum is lost, 

Naught else can save the town." 

XX 

Just then a scout came flying, 

All wild with haste and fear ; 155 



260 MACAULAY 



" To arms ! to arms ! Sir Consul : 

Lars Porsena is here." 
On the low hills to westward 

The Consul fixed his eye, 
And saw the swarthy storm of dust i6o 

Rise fast along the sky. 



And nearer fast and nearer 

Doth the red whirlwind come ; 
And louder still and still more loud, 
From underneath that rolling cloud, 165 

Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, 

The trampling, and the hum. 
And plainly and more plainly 

Now through the gloom appears, 
Far to left and far to right, 170 

In broken gleams of dark-blue light, 
The long array of helmets bright, 

The long array of spears. 

XXII 

And plainly and more plainly, 

Above that glimmering line, 175 

Now might ye see the banners 

Of twelve fair cities shine ; 
But the banner of proud Clusium 

Was highest of them all. 
The terror of the Umbrian, iSo 

The terror of the Gaul. 



And plainly and more plainly 

Now might the burghers know, 
By port and vest, by horse and crest, 

Each warlike Lucumo. 185 



HORATIUS 261 

There Cilnius of Arretium 

On his fleet roan was seen ; 
And Astur of the fourfold shield, 
Girt with the brand none else may wield, 
Tolumnius with the belt of gold, 
And dark Verbenna from the hold • 190 

By reedy Thrasymene. 

XXIV 

Fast by the royal standard, 

O'erlooking all the war, 
Lars Porsena of Clusium 195 

Sat in his ivory car. 
By the right wheel rode Mamilius 

Prince of the Latian name ; 
And by the left, false Sextus, 

That wrought the deed of shame. 200 

XXV 

But when the face of Sextus 

Was seen among the foes, 
A yell that rent the firmament 

From all the town arose. 
On the house-tops was no woman 205 

But spat towards him and hissed, 
No child but screamed out curses, 

And shook its little fist. 

XXVI 

But the Consul's brow was sad, 

And the Consul's speech was low, 210 

And darkly looked he at the wall. 

And darkly at the foe. 
" Their van will be upon us 

Before the bridge goes down ; 
And if they once may win the bridge, 215 

What hope to save the town? " 



262 MACAULAY 



Then out spake brave Horatius, 

The Captain of the Gate : 
" To every man upon this earth 

Death cometh soon or late. 220 

' And how can man die better 

Than facing fearful odds, 
For the ashes of his fathers, 

And the temples of his Gods, 

XXVIII 

" And for the tender mother 225 

Who dandled him to rest, 
And for the wife who nurses 

His baby at her breast, 
And for the holy maidens 

Who feed the eternal flame, 230 

To save them from false Sextus, 

That wrought the deed of shame ? 

XXIX 

" Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, 

With all the speed ye may ; 
I, with two more to help me, 235 

Will hold the foe in play. 
In yon strait path a thousand 

May well be stopped by three. 
Now who will stand on either hand, 

And keep the bridge with me ? " 240 

XXX 

Then out spake Spurius Lartius ; 

A Ramnian proud was he : 
" Lo, I will stand at thy right hand. 

And keep the bridge with thee." 
And out spake strong Herminius ; 245 

Of Titian blood was he : 



IIORA TIUS 263 

" I will abide on thy left side, 
And keep the bridge with thee." 

XXXI 

" Horatius," quoth the Consul, 

" As thou sayest, so let it be." 250 

And straight against that great array 

Forth went the dauntless Three. 
For Romans in Rome's quarrel 

Spared neither land nor gold, 
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, 255 

In the brave days of old. 

XXXII 

Then none was for a party; 

Then all were for the state ; 
Then the great man helped the poor, 

And the poor man loved the great : 260 

Then lands were fairly portioned ; 

Then spoils were fairly sold : 
The Romans were like brothers 

In the brave days of old. 

XXXIII 

Now Roman is to Roman 265 

More hateful than a foe. 
And the Tribunes beard the high, 

And the Fathers grind the low. 
As we wax hot in faction. 

In battle we wax cold : 270 

Wherefore men fight not as they fought 

In the brave days of old. 

XXXIV 

Now while the Three were tightening 
■ Their harness on their backs, 
The Consul was the foremost man 275 

To take in hand an axe : 



264 MACAULAY 

And Fathers, mixed with Commons, 

Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, 
And smote upon the planks above, 

And loosed the props below. 2S0 

XXXV 

Meanwhile the Tuscan army, 

Right glorious to behold, 
Came flashing back the noonday light, 
Rank behind rank, like surges bright 

Of a broad sea of gold. 285 

Four hundred trumpets sounded 

A peal of warlike glee. 
As that great host, with measured tread, 
And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, 
Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, 290 

Where stood the dauntless Three. 

XXXVI 

The Three stood calm and silent, 

And looked upon the foes, 
And a great shout of laughter 

From all the vanguard rose : 295 

And forth three chiefs came spurring 

Before that deep array ; 
To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, 

And lifted high their shields, and flew 
To win the narrow way ; 300 

XXXVII 

Annus from green Tifernum, 

Lord of the Hill of Vines ; 
And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves 

Sicken in Ilva's mines ; 
And Picus, long to Clusium * 305 

Vassal in peace and war, 
Who led to fight his Umbrian powers 



noKA rius 265 

From that grey crag where, girt with towers, 
The fortress of Nequinum lowers 

O'er the pale waves of Nar. 310 

XXXVIII 

Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus 

Into the stream beneath : 
Herminius struck at Seius, 

And clove him to the teeth : 
At Picus brave Horatius 315 

Darted one fiery thrust ; 
And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms 

Clashed in the bloody dust. 

XXXIX 

Then Ocnus of Falerii 

Rushed on the Roman Three ; 32° 

And Lausulus of Urgo, 

The rover of the sea ; 
And Aruns of Volsinium, 

Who slew the great wild boar, 
The great wild boar that had his den 325 

Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen. 
And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, 

Along Albinia's shore. 

XL 

Herminius smote down Aruns : 

Lartius laid Ocnus low : 33° 

Right to the heart of Lausulus 

Horatius sent a blow. 
" Lie there," he cried, " fell pirate ! 

No more, aghast and pale, 
From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark 335 

The track of thy destroying bark. 
No more Campania's hinds shall fly 
To woods and caverns when they spy 

Thy thrice-accursed sail." 



266 MACAULAY 



XLI 



But now no sound of laughter 340 

Was heard among the foes ; 
A wild and wrathful clamour 

From all the vanguard rose. 
Six spears' lengths from the entrance 

Halted that deep array, 345 

And for a space no man came forth 

To win the narrow way. 

XLII 

But hark ! the cry is Astur : 

And lo ! the ranks divide ; 
And the great Lord of Luna 350 

Comes with his stately stride. 
Upon his ample shoulders 

Clangs loud the fourfold shield, 
And in his hand he shakes the brand 

Which none but he can wield. 355 

XLIII 

He smiled on those bold Romans 

A smile serene and high ; 
He eyed the flinching Tuscans, 

And scorn was in his eye. 
Quoth he, " The she-wolf's litter 360 

Stand savagely at bay : 
But will ye dare to follow, 

If Astur clears the way? " 



Then, whirling up his broadsword 

With both hands to the height, 365 

He rushed against Horatius, 

And smote with all his might. 
With shield and blade Horatius 

Right deftly turned the blow. 



HOKATIUS 267 

The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh ; 370 

It missed his hehn, but gashed his thigh : 
The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 
To see the red blood flow, 

XLV 

He reeled, and on Herminius 

He leaned one breathing-space ; 375 

Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds, 

Sprang right at Astur's face ; 
Through teeth, and skull, and helmet 

So fierce a thrust he sped, 
The good sword stood a hand-breadth out 3S0 

Behind the Tuscan's head. 

XLVI 

And the great Lord of Luna 

Fell at that deadly stroke, 
As falls on Mount Alvernus 

A thunder-smitten oak. 3^5 

Far o'er the crashing forest 

The giant arms lie spread ; 
And the pale augurs, muttering low, 

Gaze on the blasted head. 

XLVII 

On Astur's throat Horatius 39° 

Right firmly pressed his heel, 
And thrice and four times tugged amain, 

Ere he wrenched out the steel. 
" And see," he cried, " the welcome. 

Fair guests, that waits you here ! 395 

What noble Lucumo comes next 

To taste our Roman cheer? " 

XLVIII 

But at his haughty challenge 
A sullen murmur ran. 



268 MACAULAY 

Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, 400 

Along that glittering van. 
There lacked not men of prowess. 

Nor men of lordly race ; 
For all Etruria's noblest 

Were round the fatal place. 405 

XLIX 

But all Etruria's noblest 

Felt their hearts sink to see 
On the earth the bloody corpses. 

In the path the dauntless Three : 
And, from the ghastly entrance 410 

Where those bold Romans stood. 
All shrank, like boys who unaware. 
Ranging the woods to start a hare. 
Come to the mouth of the dark lair 
Where, growling low, a fierce old bear 415 

Lies amidst bones and blood. 



Was none who would be foremost 

To lead such dire attack : 
But those behind cried " Forward ! " 

And those before cried " Back ! " 420 

And backward now and forward 

Wavers the deep array ; 
And on the tossing sea of steel. 

To and fro the standards reel ; 
And the victorious trumpet-peal 425 

Dies fitfully away. 

LI 

Yet one man for one moment 

Stood out before the crowd ; 
Well known was he to all the Three, 

And they gave him greeting loud, — 430 



HORA TIUS 269 

" Now welcome, welcome, Sextus ! 

Now welcome to thy home ! 
Why dost thou stay, and turn away? 

Here lies the road to Rome." 

LII 

Thrice looked he at the city ; 435 

Thrice looked he at the dead ; 
And thrice came on in fury. 

And thrice turned back in dread : 
And, white with fear and hatred, 

Scowled at the narrow way, 440 

Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, 

The bravest Tuscans lay. 

LIII 

But meanwhile axe and lever 

Have manfully been plied ; 
And now the bridge hangs tottering 445 

Above the boihng tide. 
" Come back, come back, Horatius ! " 

Loud cried the Fathers all ; 
" Back, Lartius ! back, Herminius ! 

Back, ere the ruin fall ! " 450 

LIV 

Back darted Spurius Lartius ; 

Herminius darted back : 
And, as they passed, beneath their feet 

They felt the timbers crack. 
But when they turned their faces, 455 

And on the farther shore 
Saw brave Horatius stand alone. 

They would have crossed once more. 

LV 

But with a crash like thunder 

Fell every loosened beam, 460 



2/0 MACAULAY 

And, like a dam, the mighty wreck 

Lay right athwart the stream. 
And a long shout of triumph 

Rose from the walls of Rome, 
As to the highest turret-tops 465 

Was splashed the yellow foam. 



And, like a horse unbroken 

When first he feels the rein, 
The furious river struggled hard, 

And tossed his tawny mane, 470 

And burst the curb, and bounded, 

Rejoicing to be free. 
And, whirling down, in fierce career, 
Battlement, and plank, and pier, 

Rushed headlong to the sea. 475 

LVII 

Alone stood brave Horatius, 

But constant still in mind, — 
Thrice thirty thousand foes before, 

And the broad flood behind. 
" Down with him ! " cried false Sextus, 480 

With a smile on his pale face. 
" Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, 

" Now yield thee to our grace." 



Round turned he, as not deigning 

Those craven ranks to see ; 485 

Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, 

To Sextus naught spake he ; 
But he saw on Palatinus 

The white porch of his home ; 
And he spake to the noble river 490 

That rolls by the towers of Rome : 



HORA TIUS ■ 27 1 

LIX 

" Oh, Tiber ! father Tiber ! 

To whom the Romans pray, 
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, 

Take thou in charge this day ! " 495 

So he spake, and speaking sheathed 

The good sword by his side, 
And with his harness on his back, 

Plunged headlong in the tide. 

LX 

No sound of joy or sorrow 500 

Was heard from either bank ; 
But friends and foes in dumb surprise, 
With parted lips and straining eyes, 

Stood gazing where he sank ; 
And when above the surges 505 

They saw his crest appear. 
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry. 
And even the ranks of Tuscany 

Could scarce forbear to cheer. 

LXI 

But fiercely ran the current, 510 

Swollen high by months of rain : 
And fast his blood was flowing ; 

And he was sore in pain, 
And heavy with his armour, 

And spent with changing blows : 515 

And oft they thought him sinking. 

But still again he rose. 

LXII 

Never, I ween, did swimmer. 

In such an evil case, 
Struggle through such a raging flood 520 

Safe to the landing place : 



2/2 ' MAC AULA Y 

But his limbs were borne up bravely 

By the brave heart within, 
And our good father Tiber 

Bare bravely up his chin. 525 

LXIII 

" Curse on him ! " quoth false Sextus ; 

" Will not the villain drown? 
But for this stay, ere close of day 

We should have sacked the town ! " 
"Heaven help him ! " quoth Lars Porsena, 530 

" And bring him safe to shore ; 
For such a gallant feat of arms 

Was never seen before." 



And now he feels the bottom ; 

Now on dry earth he stands ; 535 

Now round him throng the Fathers 

To press his gory hands ; 
And now, with shouts and clapping, 

And noise of weeping loud, 
He enters through the River-Gate, 540 

Borne by the joyous crowd. 



They gave him of the corn-land, 

That was of public right, 
As much as two strong oxen 

Could plough from morn till night ; 545 

And they made a molten image, 

And set it up on high, 
And there it stands unto this day 

To witness if I lie. 

LXVI 

It stands in the Comitium, 550 

Plain for all folk to see. 



HORATIUS 273 

Horatius in his harness, 

Halting upon one knee : 
And underneath is written, 

In letters all of gold, 555 

How valiantly he kept the bridge 

In the brave days of old. 

LXVII 

And still his name sounds stirring 

Unto the men of Rome, 
As the trumpet-blast that cries to them 560 

To charge the Volscian home ; 
And wives still pray to Juno 

For boys with hearts as bold 
As his who kept the bridge so well 

In the brave days of old. 565 

LXVIII 

And in the nights of winter, 

When the cold north winds blow. 
And the long howling of the wolves 

Is heard amidst the snow ; 
When round the lonely cottage 570 

Roars loud the tempest's din. 
And the good logs of Algidus 

Roar louder yet within ; 

LXIX 

When the oldest cask is opened, 

And the largest lamp is lit ; 575 

When the chestnuts glow in the embers. 

And the kid turns on the spit ; 
When young and old in circle 

Around the firebrands close ; 
When the girls are weaving baskets, 580 

And the lads are shaping bows ; 

T 



2/4 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 

LXX 

When the goodman mends his armour, 

And trims his helmet's plume ; 
When the goodwife's shuttle merrily 

Goes flashing through the loom ; 585 

With weeping and with laughter 

Still is the story told, 
How well Horatius kept the bridge 

In the brave days of old. 

ALFRED TENNYSON (1809-1892) 

Few poets have been so completely representative of their time, have 
entered so fully into its moods, or have, to such a degree, first moulded 
and then satisfied the tastes of their contemporaries as Alfred Tenny- 
son. If the rank of a poet depends upon the diverse nature of his 
poetic accomplishment, or his recognition of the public need and a uni- 
versal acceptance by his auditors, or an entire devotion to his art, or a 
lofty conception of his mission, or the harmony and effectiveness of his 
performance — then Tennyson's place among English poets must be 
very high. He was, in the fullest and best sense of the word, a scholar, 
delighting to live in seclusion and in communion with nature and his 
books. He not only thoroughly knew his own age, but also knew, as 
few others have known, the history and best traditions of the literature 
that preceded him. He has been called the poet of art rather than of 
energy. His technical skill is equal to Pope's, though he is as much 
broader than Pope as nineteenth-century poetry is broader than poetry 
of the eighteenth century. He has been frequently styled the literary 
successor of Keats, but he added to Keats's power of happily combining 
color, music, and sensuous form, a moral earnestness, a range of inter- 
est, a structural imagination, and a trained literary discrimination, of 
which the earlier poet shows little. No other English poet, not even 
Spenser or Wordsworth, has more conscientiously devoted himself to 
the cultivation of his talent. For over sixty years he was a poet pure 
and simple, writing, revising, studying, living for his art ; and he made 
of himself an artist whose skill has rarely been surpassed. Few writers 
have so fully possessed the ability to profit by the work of their prede- 
cessors, and, at the same time, to develop so distinct an individuality. 
Graceful, melodious, felicitous in technique, exquisite in imagery, and 
noble in aspiration, he follows not far behind the very best of English 



ALFRED TENNYSON 



275 



poets. So quiet and retired was his life that an account of it can be 
scarcely more than a record of his successive publications. 

1809-1832. — Tennyson was born in Lincolnshire in 1809, the fourth 
son in a large and highly gifted family. His father was a clergyman, 
and a man of unusual learning and intelligence. Aside from a few 
rather unhappy years at school, the boy received his early education at 
home, where the wholesome country life and the companionship and 
careful training of his father did much toward insuring a sound 
literary development. When he was but eighteen years of age, he 
published with his brother Charles (then nineteen) a little volume now 
valuable because of its rarity, called Poeinf of Two Brothers. The 
same year he entered Trinity College, Cambridge. Here he gained 
some little note as a college, poet, and made many warm and lasting 
friends (among them the brilliant but short-lived Arthur Hallam) ; but 
he left the university in 1831 without taking a degree, and at once 
devoted himself entirely to poetry. The year before leaving college 
he had published Poems, Chiefly Lyrical, a book which was rather 
severely handled by the critics. 

1832-1850. — Incited by these not wholly undeserved strictures, the 
poet, after publishing a second volume in 1832, sat quietly and diligently 
down to a course of self-development. He spent the next ten years 
chiefly in London, in the study of history, science, language, literature 
— anything which might discipline and mature his poetic ability. The 
outcome appeared in the marked distinction of the two volumes which 
he published in 1842 — volumes which established beyond cavil his 
reputation as a poet. Among these poems of 1842 were some of his 
best, such as the Morte d\4rthi(r, Ulysses, and I^ocksley Liall. In 1847 
appeared The Princess, and in 1850, his forty-first year and the year of 
his marriage, /;/ Memoriatn was published. Begun long before upon 
the death of his dear friend, Hallam, this is the apotheosis of sorrow 
transfigured by immortal hope. A few months later, upon the death of 
Wordsworth, Tennyson was made Poet Laureate. 

1850-1875. — At the beginning of this period the poet took up his 
residence in the Isle of Wight, at Farringford, partly through love of the 
country and partly to escape from the publicity which his shy nature 
abhorred. After some fifteen years, when this retreat had also begun 
to be the Mecca of literary pilgrimages, he established a summer home 
at Aldworth, in Surrey. In these two country homes, surrounded by 
his family and congenial friends, he lived out a long, quiet, contented 
life, much as Wordsworth had done at Grasmere and Rydal Mount 
some fifty years before. All this time he was steadily at work publishing, 
at intervals of about five years and in the order named, — Maud, the 



276 TENNYSON 

first four Idylls of the King, Enoch Arden, The Holy Grail, and other 
Idylls. 

1875-1892. — In 1875 appeared the first of his three historical 
dramas. These are worthy of note, not so much for their intrinsic 
value, which is not inconsiderable, as for the interesting fact that the 
poet, now sixty-six years old, had the energy and ambition to enter 
upon an entirely new field of work, that of dramatic poetry. In fact, 
Becket, the best of his dramas, was written when Tennyson was over 
seventy-five years of age. But this by no means completes the tale of 
his work. Until the end of his life, poem after poem appeared, which, 
while adding nothing to his already established fame, are yet so good 
that we should be loath to part with one of them. Indeed, Crossing 
the Bar, the work of his eighty-first year, is one of the best things he 
ever wrote. In i8§4 Tennyson accepted a peerage, with the title of 
Baron of Aldworth and Farringford — an honor which he had previously 
twice declined. The poet died at Aldworth in his eighty-fourth year, 
October, 1892, and was buried with imposing ceremony in the Poets' 
Corner of Westminster Abbey. 

Almost everything in Tennyson is worth reading. Certainly no 
other English author has written so many charming and artistic short 
poems. A few of these are given below. His longer poems, such as 
The Princess, Enoch Arden, or the different Idylls of the King, are as 
entertaining and simple as they are beautiful. Three of the Idylls 
may be found in a later portion of this book. In Memoriam, which is 
by many regarded as Tennyson's greatest work, is one of the noblest 
elegies ever written. Three things seem to insure Tennyson's popu- 
larity : he is almost always clear, he is uniformly interesting, and he is 
essentially modern. In the drama he did good, but not preeminent ser- 
vice ; in the ballad and the dramatic monologue he is not easily excelled ; 
in the lyric he has few superiors ; in the idyll and the elegy he is sur- 
passed by none. 

CENONE 

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 
Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 
The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen. 
Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, 
And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 5 

The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down 
Hang rich in Howers, and far below them roars 



CENONE 277 

The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine 

In cataract after cataract to the sea. 

Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 10 

Stands up and takes the morning : but in front 

The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 

Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel, 

The crown of Troas. 

Hither came at noon 
Mournful CEnone, wandering forlorn 15 

Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. 
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck 
Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. 
She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, 
Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade 20 

Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. 

"O mother Ida, many-fountain 'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
For now the noonday quiet holds the hill : 
The grasshopper is silent in the grass : 25 

The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, 
Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead. 
The purple flower droops : the golden bee 
Is lily-cradled : I alone awake. 

My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love ; 30 

My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, 
And I am all aweary of my life. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves 35 

That house the cold crown 'd snake ! O mountain brooks, 
I am the daughter of a River-God, 
Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all 
My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls 
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 40 

A cloud that gather'd shape : for it may be 
That, while I speak of it, a little while 
My heart may wander from its deeper woe. 



278 TENNYSON 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 45 

I waited underneath the dawning hills, 
Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark. 
And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine : 
Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 

Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd", white-hooved, 50 

Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 

" O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft : 
Far up the solitary morning smote 

The streaks of virgin snow. With downdropt eyes 55 

I sat alone : white-breasted like a star 
Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leopard skin 
Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair 
Cluster'd about his temples like a God's, 
And his cheek brighten'd as the foam-bow brightens 60 

When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart 
Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm 
Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, 65 

That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd 
And listen'd, the full-flowing river of speech 
Came down upon my heart. 

" ' My own CEnone, 
Beautiful-brow'd CEnone, my own soul. 
Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav'n 70 

" For the most fair," would seem to award it thine, 
As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt 
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 
Of movement, and the charm of married brows.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 75 

He prest the blossom of his lips to mine. 
And added ' This was cast upon the board, 



CENONE 279 

When all the full-faced presence of the Gods 

Ranged in the halls of Peleus ; whereupon 

Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due : 80 

But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, 

Delivering, that to me, by common voice 

Elected umpire, Here comes to-day, 

Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 

This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave 85 

Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, 

Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard 

Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
It was the deep midnoon : one silvery cloud 90 

Had lost his way between the piney sides 
Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, 
Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, 
And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, 
Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, 95 

Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose, 
And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, 
This way and that, in many a wild festoon 
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 
With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'. 100 

" O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit. 
And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. 
Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom 105 

Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows 
Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods 
Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made 
Proffer of royal power, ample rule 

Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue no 

AVherewith to embellish state, ' from many a vale 
And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with corn. 
Or labor'd mines undrainable of ore. 



28o TENNYSON 

Honor,' she said, ' and homage, tax, and toll, 

From many an inland town and haven large, 115 

Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel 

In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' 

" O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Still she spake on and still she spake of power, 
' Which in all action is the end of all ; 120 

Power fitted to the season ; wisdom-bred 
And throned of wisdom — from all neighbor crowns 
Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 
Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me, 
From me. Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, 125 
A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, 
Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power, 
Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd 
Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 

Above the thunder, with undying bliss 130 

In knowledge of their own supremacy.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit 
Out at arm's length, so much the thought of power 
Flatter'd his spirit ; but Pallas where she stood 135 

Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs 
O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear 
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, 
The while, above, her full and earnest eye 
Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek 140 

Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply : 

'* ' Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, 
These three alone lead life to sovereign power. 
Yet not for power, (power of herself 

Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law, 145 

Acting the law we live by without fear ; 
And, because right is right, to follow right 
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.' 



(EN ONE 281 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Again she said : ' I woo thee not with gifts. 150 

Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, 
So shalt thou find me fairest. 

Yet, indeed, 
If gazing on divinity disrobed 

Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, 155 

Unbiass'd by self profit, O, rest thee sure 
That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, 
So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood. 
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, 
To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks, 160 

Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow 
Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown will, 
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom.' 

" Here she ceased, 
And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, ' O Paris, 165 

Give it to Pallas ! ' but he heard me not, 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me ! 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, 170 

Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells. 
With rosy slender fingers backward drew 
From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair 
Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat 
And shoulder : from the violets her light foot 175 

Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form 
Between the shadows of the vine-bunches 
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, 180 

The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh 
Half-whisper'd in his ear, ' I promise thee 



282 TENNYSON 

The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' 

She spoke and laugh'd : I shut my sight for fear : 

But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm, 185 

And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, 

As she withdrew into the golden cloud, 

And I was left alone within the bower ; 

And from that time to this I am alone, 

And I shall be alone until I die. 190 

" Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Fairest — why fairest wife ? am I not fair ? 
My love hath told me so a thousand times. 
Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday. 
When I past by, a wild and wanton pard, 195 

Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail 
Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she ? 
Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms 
Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest 
Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew 200 

Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains 
Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
They came, they cut away my tallest pines, 
My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge 205 

High over the blue gorge, and all between 
The snowy peak and snow-M'hite cataract 
Foster'd the callow eaglet — from beneath 
Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn 
The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat 210 

Low in the valley. Never, never more 
Shall lone Qi^none see the morning mist 
Sweep thro' them ; never see them overlaid 
With narrow moon-lit slits of silver cloud, 
Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. 215 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds, 
Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, 



CENONE 283 

Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her, 

The Abominable, that uninvited came 220 

Into the fair Peleian banquet-hall 

And cast the golden fruit upon the board, 

And bred this change ; that I might speak my mind, 

And tell her to her face how much I hate 

Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. 225 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, 
In this green valley, under this green hill, 
Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone ? 
Seal'd it with kisses ? water'd it with tears ? 230 

O happy tears, and how unlike to these ! 
O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face ? 
.0 happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight ? 

death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, 

There are enough unhappy on this earth ; 235 

Pass by the happy souls, that love to live : 

1 pray thee, pass before my light of life. 
And shadow all my soul, that I may die. 
Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, 

Weigh heavy on my eyelids : let me die. 240 

"O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
Do shape themselves within me, more and more, 
Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 

Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, 245 

Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 
My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother 
Conjectures of the features of her child 
Ere it is born : her child ! — a shudder comes 
Across me : never child be born of me, 250 

Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes ! 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone. 



284 TENNYSON 

Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me 

Walking the cold and starless road of Death 255 

Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 

With the Greek woman. I will rise and go 

Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth 

Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says 

A fire dances before her, and a sound 260 

Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 

What this may be I know not, but I know 

That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day, 

All earth and air seem only burning fire." 

THE LADY OF SHALOTT 

PART I 

On either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye, 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; 
And thro' the field the road runs by 

To many-tower'd Camelot ; 5 

And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below, 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 10 

Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Thro' the wave that runs for ever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 15 

Overlook a space of flowers. 
And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veil'd. 

Slide the heavy barges trail'd 20 

By slow horses ; and unhail'd 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT 285 

The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot : 
But who hath seen her wave her hand ? 
Or at the casement seen her stand ? 25 

Or is she known in all the land, 

The Lady of Shalott ? 

Only reapers, reaping early 

In among the bearded barley. 

Hear a song that echoes cheerly 30 

From the river winding clearly 

Down to tower'd Camelot : 
And by the moon the reaper weary, 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy, 
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy 35 

Lady of Shalott." 

PART II 

There she weaves by night and day 

A magic web with colours gay. 

She has heard a whisper say, 

A curse is on her if she stay 40 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be, 
And so she weaveth steadily, 
And little other care hath she. 

The Lady of Shalott. 45 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year, 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot : 50 

There the river eddy whirls, 
And there the surly village-churls. 
And the red cloaks of market girls, 

Pass onward from Shalott. 



286 TENNYSON 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 55 

An abbot on an ambling pad, 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, 
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot : 
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 60 

The knights come riding two and two : 
She hath no loyal knight and true. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 

To weave the mirror's magic sights, 65 

For often thro' the silent nights 

A funeral, with plumes and lights 

And music, went to Camelot : 
Or when the moon was overhead. 
Came two young lovers lately wed ; 70 

"I am half sick of shadows," said 

The Lady of Shalott. 

PART III 

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves. 

He rode between the barley-sheaves, 

The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, 75 

And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd 
To a lady in his shield, 
That sparkled on the yellow field, 80 

Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free. 

Like to some branch of stars we see 

Hung in the golden Galaxy. 

The bridle bells rang merrily 85 

As he rode down to Camelot : 
And from his blazon 'd baldric slung, 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT 287 

A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armour rung, 

Beside remote Shalott. 90 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick-jevvell'd shone the saddle-leather, 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burn'd like one burning flame together, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 95 

As often thro' the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright. 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 

Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd ; 100 

On burnish 'd hooves his war-horse trode ; 
From underneath his helmet flow'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 105 

He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
" Tirra lirra," by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom, 

She made three paces thro' the room, no 

She saw the water-lily bloom, 

She saw the helmet and the plume. 

She look'd down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide ; 
The mirror crack'd from side to side ; 115 

" The curse is come upon me," cried 

The Lady of the Shalott. 



In the stormy east-wind straining. 
The pale yellow woods were waning. 



288 TENNYSON 

The broad stream in his banks complaining, 120 

Heavily the low sky raining 

Over tower'd Camelot ; 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat, 
And round about the prow she wrote 125 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And down the river's dim expanse — 

Like some bold seer in a trance, 

Seeing all his own mischance — 

With a glassy countenance 130 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay ; 
The broad stream bore her far away, 

The Lady of Shalott. 135 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot : 140 

And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among. 
They heard her singing her last song, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 145 

Chanted loudly, chanted lowly. 
Till her blood was frozen slowly. 
And her eyes were darken 'd wholly, 

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. 
For ere she reach'd upon the tide 150 

The first house by the water-side. 
Singing in her song she died, 

The Lady of Shalott. 



UL YSSES 289 

Under tower and balcony, 

By garden-wall and gallery, 155 

A gleaming shape she floated by, 

Dead-pale between the houses high, 

Silent into Camelot. 
Out upon the wharfs they came 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 160 

And round the prow they read her name, 

IVie Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this ? and what is here ? 

And in the lighted palace near 

Died the sound of royal cheer ; 165 

And they cross 'd themselves for fear, 

All the knights at Camelot : 
But Lancelot mused a little space ; 
He said, " She has a lovely face ; 
God in his mercy lend her grace, 170 

The Lady of Shalott." 



ULYSSES 

It little profits that an idle king. 

By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 

Match 'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race. 

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me, 

I cannot rest from travel : I will drink 

Life to the lees : all times I have enjoy'd 

Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those 

That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when 

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 

Vext the dim sea : I am become a name ; 

For always roaming with a hungry heart. 

Much have I seen and known : cities of men. 

And manners, climates, councils, governments, — 

Myself not least, but honour'd of them all ; 



290 TENNYSON- 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met ; 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 

Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades 20 

For ever and for ever when I move. 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end. 

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use ! 

As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 25 

Little remains : but every hour is saved 

From that eternal silence, something more, 

A bringer of new things ; and vile it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 30 

To follow knowledge like a sinking star, 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 35 

This labour, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 40 

In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods. 
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

There lies the port ; the vessel puffs her sail : 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, 45 

Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old ; 
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil : 50 

Death closes all : but something ere the end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 



TITHONUS 291 

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : 

The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : the deep 55 

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 

'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 

Push off, and sitting well in order smite 

The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds 

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 60 

Of all the western stars, until I die. 

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down : 

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 

Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and tho' 65 

We are not now that strength which in old days 

Moved earth and heaven ; that which we are, we are ; 

One equal temper of heroic hearts, 

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 70 

TITHONUS 

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall. 

The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, 

Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, 

And after many a summer dies the swan. 

Me only cruel immortality 5 

Consumes : I wither slowly in thine arms, 

Here at the quiet limit of the world, 

A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream 

The ever-silent spaces of the East, 

Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. 10 

Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a man — 
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice. 
Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd 
To his great heart none other than a God ! 
I ask'd thee, "Give me immortality." 15 

Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile. 
Like wealthy men who care not how they give. 



292 TENNYSON 

But thy strong Hours indignant work'cl their wills, 

And beat me down and marr'd and wasted me, 

And tho' they could not end me, left me maim'd 20 

To dwell in presence of immortal youth, 

Immortal age beside immortal youth. 

And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love. 

Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now, 

Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, 25 

Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears 

To hear me ? Let me go : take back thy gift : 

Why should a man desire in any way 

To vary from the kindly race of men. 

Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 30 

Where all should pause, as is most meet for all ? 

A soft air fans the cloud apart ; there comes 
A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. 
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, 35 
And bosom beating with a heart renew'd. 
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom. 
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine. 
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team 
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, 40 

And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes, 
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. 

Lo ! ever thus thou growest beautiful 
In silence, then before thine answer given 
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. 45 

Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears, 
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt. 
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true ? 
" The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts." 

Ay me ! ay me ! with what another heart 50 

In days far-off, and with what other eyes 
I used to watch — if I be he that watch'd — 



CROSSING THE BAR 293 

The lucid outline forming round thee ; saw 

The dim curls kindle into sunny rings ; 

Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood 55 

Glow with the glow that slowly crimson 'd all 

Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, 

Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm 

With kisses balmier than half-opening buds 

Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd 60 

Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, 

Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, 

While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. 

Yet hold me not for ever in thine East : 
How can my nature longer mix with thine ? 65 

Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold 
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam 
Floats up from those dim fields about the homes 
Of happy men that have the power to die, 70 

And grassy barrows of the happier dead. 
Release me, and restore me to the ground ; 
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave : 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn ; 
I earth in earth forget these empty courts, 75 

And thee returning on thy silver wheels. 



CROSSING THE BAR 

Sunset and evening star. 

And one clear call for me ! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep. 

Too full for sound and foam. 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 



294 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark ! lo 

And may there be no sadness of farewell 

When I embark ; 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place, 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 15 

When I have crost the bar. 



ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1SS9) 

Browning was almost an exact contemporary of Tennyson, born 
three years later and dying three years earlier. Like Tennyson, he 
was a man of upright character, deep religious earnestness, and cheerful 
optimism. Like Tennyson, also, he was always frank in facing the 
intellectual and spiritual problems of the age. Both poets are essen- 
tially wholesome in all their writings ; both are distinctively modern in 
thought and poetic method ; both were so fortunately situated as to be 
able to give their undivided attention to their work ; and both, for 
nearly sixty years, labored untiringly and devotedly toward the realiza- 
tion of their art and its mission. But the parallel ends here, and a 
divergence commences which will explain why Browning, unlike his 
great contemporary, has never been favored by the many, though he is 
intensely admired by the few. 

The genius of Browning is bold, independent, and vigorous, as his 
personality is robust, genial, and aggressive. Of smooth and graceful 
verse he is capable (witness his Said^, and he is capable also of 
lucidity ; but he tends rather to that which is involved in conception 
and forceful and rugged in utterance. His mission was not to delight 
or soothe, hut to arouse and intellectually to awaken. His aims are 
strikingly original, and his method no less so. In consequence, he has 
been condemned by many who simply do not take the trouble to under- 
stand him. As a thinker he is rapid and daring, wonderflilly subtle and 
profound. His knowledge was broad, yet singularly recondite, — as, for 
instance, in relation to the music, painting, and sculpture of his beloved 
Italy. Unfortunately, with characteristic disregard of his reader's limita- 
tions, he had the habit of registering his thoughts just as he thought 
them ; of jotting down allusions just as they occurred to him. The 
obscurity of Browning, moreover, is due not only to subtlety of 
thought and compression of phrase, but also, in no slight degree, to 



ROBERT BROWNING 295 

his careless style of writing. Hence the demand for Browning societies 
and Browning cyclopedias, and hence the disfavor in which many hold 
the poet. 

There is little doubt that Browning was ahead of his age, and that 
the common knowledge and appreciation of his work will gain as time 
passes. Some of his lyrics are almost perfect of their kind. His dra- 
matic monologues show a power of character analysis equalled by few 
since Shakespeare. In mental force and directness he reminds one of 
Dryden at his best. His poems rarely yield their meaning on a single 
reading, but those who take the pains to study him seldom fail to derive 
an exhilaration and uplift which few poets are capable of imparting. 
Much of his poetry hinges on the relation of this life to the next. God, 
the freedom of the individual soul, and immortality, are the cardinal tenets 
of his faith. No English poet has coined into art a religious belief 
more strenuous and optimistic. Already ranked next to Tennyson in 
the field of nineteenth-century poetry, the day is perhaps not far distant 
when the consensus of opinion will place him beside Tennyson as one 
of the leading English poets ; always, of course, inferior in technique, 
but superior in originality of thought, in interjiretative and creative 
power. 

1812-1846. — Browning was born in London in May, 1812. His father, 
a clerk in the Bank of England, was a man of considerable learning, as 
well as taste in matters of art and literature. The boy's education was 
received chiefly by private instruction at home, where his father's large 
library afforded him excellent opportunity for study. He was attracted 
successively by the works of Byron, Keats, and Shelley ; and, at a 
very early age, commenced the making of verse on his own account. 
Unlike almost every other English man of letters, he attended neither 
Oxford nor Cambridge. Browning's first poem, Faidine, was written 
when he was not yet twenty years of age. The poem, though crude 
and difficult to understand, is important as the first step toward the 
fulfilment of the poet's definite determination to make his poetry a study 
of the life of the soul. Such a study was Paracelsus three years later, 
and such Sordello in 1840 — both of them characteristic of their author; 
but the latter, especially, nay unpardonably, obscure and, in many places, 
even unintelligible to the average or more than average reader. Be- 
tween 1840 and 1846, many of Browning's best poems were written, 
among them Pippa Passes, the Dramatic Lyrics, and the Blot P the 
''Scutcheon. This series of poems made up some nine or ten small 
volumes, and were together known as Bells and Pomegranates. 

1846-1861. — When Browning was thirty-four years old, he met 
Elizabeth Barrett, England's greatest poetess, who was then a confirmed 



296 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 

invalid. An attachment sprang up, and, under romantic circumstances, 
the two were married. They slipped away to Italy and made their 
home in Florence until the wife's death fifteen years later. Though 
much of Mrs. Browning's best work was done during this period, 
Browning himself published but two volumes, Christmas Eve and Easter 
Day, 1850, and Men and IVomen, 1855. The latter is a collection of dra- 
matic monologues — poems where the speaker is supposed to address an 
interlocutor, whose presence, however, is only inferred from the speak- 
er's words. In this particular form of composition, Browning stands 
supreme. 

1861-1871. — After his wife's death the poet returned to London, 
which was henceforth his home, save for occasional periods of residence 
in Venice. During the first ten years of this life in London he con- 
tinued to write poems of a quality not inferior to those which he had 
written in Italy. The Dramatis Personce, in subject and treatment, 
reminds the reader of Men and Women. The Ring and the Book, 
1869, over twice as long as either Paradise Lost or the Idylls of the 
King, is thought by many to be his best, as it is certainly his most 
ambitious, work ; but though lighted by golden shafts of poetry the wood 
is hard at times to see for the trees, so confused, indiscriminate, and 
repetitious are the details. The Balaustion^s Adventitre, 1871, is note- 
worthy as a delightful rendering of a noble Greek tragedy. 

1871-1889. — The latter portion of Browning's life was even more busily 
employed than his earlier years. As he grew older, his poems became, 
unfortunately, more and more abstruse, his style more and more obscure. 
We could well spare many of his later poems, although the very last, 
Assola7ido, written when the poet was over seventy-five years of age, 
contains some lyrics equal to those of his best days. Browning died at 
Venice in 1889, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. 

That much of Browning's poetry is difficult cannot be denied. Still 
some of the poems are much easier to understand than others ; and if they 
are read in such an order as takes this into account, a comprehension 
of the peculiarities of their author's style is much more easily acquired. 
The short poems included in this volume are among the simpler of his 
productions. At a later period the student may well supplement them 
by Pippa Passes, The Blot f the "'Scutcheon, Paracelsus, Era Lippo 
Lippi, Caliban on Setebos, The Death in the Desert, Said, Ferishtah''s 
Fancies, and many another. 



HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD 297 

HOME-THOUGHTS, B'ROM ABROAD 



Oh, to be in England 

Now that April's there, 

And whoever wakes in England 

Sees, some morning, unaware, 

That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf 

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 

In England — now ! 



And after April, when May follows, 

And the white throat builds, and all the swallows ! 10 

Hark ! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 

Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge — 

That's the wise thrush ; he sings each song twice over, 

Lest you should think he never could recapture 15 

The first fine careless rapture ! 

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 

The buttercups, the Httle children's dower 

— Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower ! 20 

HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA 

Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-West died away ; 
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay ; 
Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay ; 
In the dimmest North-East distance dawned Gibraltar grand and 

gray; 
" Here and here did England help me : how can I help England? " 

— say, 5 
Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray. 
While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. 



298 BROWNING 

EVELYN HOPE 



Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, 
Beginning to die too, in the glass ; 

Little has yet been changed, I think : 
The shutters are shut, no light may pass 

Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. 



Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard niy name ; 10 

It was not her time to love ; beside, 

Her life had many a hope and aim. 
Duties enough and little cares. 

And now was quiet, now astir. 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares, — 15 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 



Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope ? 

What, your soul was pure and true, 
The good stars met in your horoscope. 

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew — 20 

And, just because I was thrice as old 

And our paths in the world diverged so wide. 
Each was naught to each, must I be told? 

We were fellow- mortals, naught beside? 

IV 

No indeed ! for God above 25 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make. 
And creates the love to reward the love : 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 



EVELYN HOPE 299 

Delayed it may be for more lives yet, 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few : 30 

Much is to learn, much to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 



But the time will come, — at last it will, 

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) 
In the lower earth, in the years long still, 35 

That body and soul so pure and gay ? 
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, 

And your mouth of your own geranium's red — 
And what you would do with me, in fine, 

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 40 

VI 

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then, 

Given up myself so many times, 
Gained me the gains of various men, 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ; 
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, 45 

Either I missed or itself missed me : 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 

What is the issue ? Let us see ! 

VII 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ! 

My heart seemed full as it could hold ; 50 

There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, 

And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. 
So, hush, — I will give you this leaf to keep : 

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand ! 
There, that is our secret : go to sleep ! 55 

You will wake, and remember, and understand. 



300 BROWNING 

MY LAST DUCHESS 

FERRARA 

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, 

Looking as if she were alive. I call 

That piece a wonder, now : Fra Pandolfs hands 

Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 

Will't please you sit and look at her? I said 5 

" Fra Pandolf " by design, for never read 

Strangers like you that pictured countenance. 

The depth and passion of its earnest glance, 

But to myself they turned (since none puts by 

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) lo 

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst. 

How such a glance came there ; so, not the first 

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not 

Her husband's presence only, called that spot 

Of joy into the Duchess' cheek : perhaps 15 

Fra Pandolf chanced to say " Her mantle laps 

Over my lady's wrist too much," or " Paint 

Must never hope to reproduce the faint 

Half-flush that dies along her throat : " such stuff 

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 20 

For calling up that spot of joy. She had 

A heart — how shall I say ? — too soon made glad, 

Too easily impressed ; she liked whate'er 

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. 

Sir, 'twas all one ! My favor at her breast, 25 

The dropping of the daylight in the West, 

The bough of cherries some officious fool 

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule 

She rode with round the terrace — all and each 

Would draw from her alike the approving speech, 30 

Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good ! but thanked 

Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked 

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name 

With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame 



ANDREA DEL SARTO 3OI 

This sort of trifling ? Even had you skill 35 

In speech — (which I have not) — to make your will 

Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this 

Or that in you disgusts me ; here you miss, 

Or there exceed the mark " — and if she let 

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 40 

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, 

— E'en then would be some stooping ; and I choose 

Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, 

Whene'er I passed her ; but who passed without 

Much the same smile ? This grew ; I gave commands ; 45 

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands 

As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet 

The company below, then. I repeat, 

The Count your master's known munificence 

Is ample warrant that no just pretence 50 

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed ; 

Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed 

At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go 

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, 

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, 55 

Which Glaus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me ! 

ANDREA DEL SARTO 

CALLED "the FAULTLESS PAINTER" 

But do not let us quarrel any more. 

No, my Lucrezia ; bear with me for once : 

Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. 

You turn your face, but does it bring your heart ? 

I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear 5 

Treat his own subject after his own way, 

Fix his own time, accept too his own price. 

And shut the money into this small hand 

When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly? 

Oh, I'll content him, — but to-morrow, Love 10 

I often am much wearier than you think. 



302 BROWNING 

This evening more than usual, and it seems 

As if — forgive now — should you let me sit 

Here by the window with your hand in mine 

And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole, 15 

Both of one mind, as married people use, 

Quietly, quietly the evening through, 

I might get up to-morrow to my work 

Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try. 

To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this ! 20 

Your soft hand is a woman of itself, 

And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside. 

Don't count the time lost, neither ; you must serve 

For each of the five pictures we require : 

It saves a model. So ! keep looking so — 25 

My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds ! 

— How could you ever prick those perfect ears, 
Even to put the pearl there ! oh, so sweet — 
My face, my moon, my everybody's moon. 

Which everybody looks on and calls his, 30 

And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn. 

While she looks — no one's : very dear, no less. 

You smile? why, there's my picture ready made, 

There's what we painters call our harmony ! 

A common grayness silvers everything, — 35 

All in a twilight, you and I alike, 

— You, at the point of your first pride in me 
(That's gone, you know), — but I, at every point ; 
My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down 

To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. 40 

There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top ; 

That length of convent-wall across the way 

Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside ; 

The last monk leaves the garden ; days decrease, 

And autumn grows, autumn in everything. 45 

Eh ? the whole seems to fall into a shape 

As if I saw alike my work and self 

And all that I was born to be and do, 

A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand. 



ANDREA DEL SARTO 303 

How strange now looks the life he makes us lead ; 50 

So free we seem, so fettered fast we are ! 

I feel he laid the fetter : let it lie ! 

This chamber for example — turn your head — 

All that's behind us ! You don't understand 

Nor care to understand about ray art, 55 

But you can hear at least when people speak : 

And that cartoon, the second from the door, 

— It is the thing, Love ! so such things should be — 
Behold Madonna ! — I am bold to say. 

I can do with my pencil what I know, 60 

What I see, what at bottom of ray heart 

I wish for, if I ever wish so deep — 

Do easily, too — when I say perfectly 

I do not boast, perhaps : yourself are judge 

Who listened to the Legate's talk last week, 65 

And just as much they used to say in France. 

At any rate 'tis easy, all of it ! 

No sketches first, no studies, that's long past : 

I do what many dream of all their lives, 

— Dream ? strive to do, and agonize to do, 70 
And fail in doing. I could count twenty such 

On twice your fingers, and not leave this town. 

Who strive — you don't know how the others strive 

To paint a little thing like that you smeared 

Carelessly passing with your robes afloat, — 75 

Yet do much less, so much less. Someone says, 

(I know his name, no matter) — so much less ! 

Well, less is more, Lucrezia : I am judged. 

There burns a truer light of God in them, 

In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, ^^ 

Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt 

This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine. 

Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know. 

Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me. 

Enter and take their place there sure enough, 85 

Though they come back and cannot tell the world. 

My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here. 



304 BROWNING 

The sudden blood of these men ! at a word — 

Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. 

I, painting from myself and to myself, 90 

Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame 

Or their praise either. Somebody remarks 

Morello's outline there is wrongly traced. 

His hue mistaken ; what of that? or else. 

Rightly traced and well ordered ; what of that? 95 

Speak as they please, what does the mountain care? 

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, 

Or what's a heaven for? All is silver-gray, 

Placid and perfect with my art : the worse ! 

I know both what I want and what might gain ; 100 

And yet how profitless to know, to sigh 

" Had I been two, another and myself, 

Our head would have o'erlooked the world — " No doubt. 

Yonder's a work now, of that famous youth 

The Urbinate who died five years ago. 105 

('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.) 

Well, I can fancy how he did it all, 

Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see, 

Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him, 

Above and through his art — for it gives way ; no 

That arm is wrongly put — and there again — 

A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines, 

Its body, so to speak : its soul is right, 

He means right — that, a child may understand. 

Still, what an arm ! and I could alter it : 115 

But all the play, the insight and the stretch — 

Out of me, out of me ! And wherefore out? 

Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul. 

We might have risen to Rafael, I and you ! 

Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think — 120 

More than I merit, yes, by many times. 

But had you — ■ oh, with the same perfect brow, 

And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth, 

And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird 

The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare — 125 



ANDREA DEL SARTO 305 

Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind ! 

Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged, 

" God and the glory ! never care for gain. 

The present by the future, what is that? 

Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo ! 130 

Rafael is waiting : up to God, all three ! " 

I might have done it for you. So it seems : 

Perhaps not. All is as God overrules. 

Beside, incentives come from the soul's self: 

The rest avail not. Why do I need you? 135 

What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo? 

In this world, who can do a thing, will not ; 

And who would do it, cannot, I perceive : 

Yet the will's somewhat — somewhat, too, the power — 

And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, 140 

God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 

'Tis safer for me, if the award be strict. 

That I am something underrated here. 

Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. 

I dared not, do you know, leave home all day, 145 

For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. 

The best is when they pass and look aside ; 

But they speak sometimes ; I must bear it all. 

Well may they speak ! That Francis, that first time, 

And that long festal year at Fontainebleau ! 150 

I surely then could sometimes leave the ground. 

Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear. 

In that humane great monarch's golden look, — 

One finger in his beard or twisted curl 

Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile, 155 

One arm about my shoulder, round my neck. 

The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, 

I painting proudly with his breath on me, 

All his court round him, seeing with his eyes. 

Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls 160 

Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts, — 

And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond, 

This in the background, waiting on my work, 



306 BROWNING 

To crown the issue with a last reward ! 

A good time, was it not, my kingly days? 165 

And had you not grown restless . . . but I know — 

'Tis done and past ; 'twas right, my instinct said ; 

Too live the life grew, golden and not gray. 

And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt 

Out of the grange whose four walls make his world. 170 

How could it end in any other way ? 

You called me, and I came home to your heart. 

The triumph was — to have ended there; then, if 

I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? 

Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold, 175 

You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine ! 

" Rafael did this, Andrea painted that ; 

The Roman's is the better when you pray, 

But still the other's Virgin was his wife " — 

Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge 180 

Both pictures in your presence ; clearer grows 

My better fortune, I resolve to think. 

For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives, 

Said one day Agnolo, his very self. 

To Rafael ... I have known it all these years ... 185 

(When the young man was flaming out his thoughts 

Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see, 

Too hfted up in heart because of it) 

" Friend, there's a certain sorry httle scrub 

Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how, 190 

Who, were he set to plan and execute 

As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, 

Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours ! " 

To Rafael's ! — And indeed the arm is wrong. 

I hardly dare . . . yet, only you to see, 195 

Give the chalk here — quick, thus the line should go ! 

Ay, but the soul ! he's Rafael ! rub it out ! 

Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth, 

(What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo? 

Do you forget already words like those?) 200 

If really there was such a chance, so lost, — 



ANDREA DEL SARTO y:>'J 

Is, whether you're — not grateful — but more pleased. 

Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed ! 

This hour has been an hour ! Another smile ? 

If you would sit thus by me every night 205 

I should work better, do you comprehend ? 

I mean that I should earn more, give you more. 

See, it is settled dusk now ; there's a star ; 

Morello's gone, the watch-lights show the wall, 

The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. 210 

Come from the window, love, — come in, at last, 

Inside the melancholy little house 

We built to be so gay with. God is just. 

King Francis may forgive me : oft at nights 

When I look up from painting, eyes tired out, 215 

The walls become illumined, brick from brick 

Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold. 

That gold of his I did cement them with ! 

Let us but love each other. Must you go ? 

That Cousin here again ? he waits outside ? 220 

Must see you — you, and not with me? Those loans? 

More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that? 

Well, let smiles buy me ! have you more to spend? 

While hand and eye and something of a heart 

Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth ? 225 

I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit 

The gray remainder of the evening out. 

Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly 

How I could paint, were I but back in France, 

One picture, just one more — the Virgin's face, 230 

Not yours this time ! I want you at my side 

To hear them — that is, Michel Agnolo — 

Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. 

Will you ? To-morrow, satisfy your friend. 

I take the subjects for his corridor, 235 

Finish the portrait out of hand — there, there. 

And throw him in another thing or two 

If he demurs ; the whole should prove enough 

To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside, 



308 BROWNING 

What's better and what's all I care about, 240 

Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff ! 

Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he, 

The Cousin ! what does he to please you more? 

I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. 
I regret little, I would change still less. 245 

Since there my past Ufe hes, why alter it ? 
The very wrong to Francis ! — it is true 
I took his coin, was tempted and complied. 
And built this house and sinned, and all is said. 
My father and my mother died of want. 250 

Well, had I riches of my own ? you see 
How one gets rich ! Let each one bear his lot. 
They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died : 
And I have labored somewhat in my time 
And not been paid profusely. Some good son 255 

Paint my two hundred pictures — let him try ! 
No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes, 
You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. 
This must suffice me here. What would one have ? 
In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance — 260 
Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, 
Meted on each side by the angel's reed, 
For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo, and me 
To cover — the three first without a wife. 
While I have mine ! So — still they overcome 265 

Because there's still Lucrezia, — as I choose. 

Again the Cousin's whistle ! Go, my Love. 

RABBI BEN EZRA 

I 

Grow old along with me ! 

The best is yet to be. 

The last of life, for which the first was made : 

Our times are in His hand 



4 



RABBI BEN EZRA 309 

Who saith, " A whole I planned, 5 

Youth shows but half ; trust God : see all, nor be afraid ! " 

II 

Not that, amassing flowers. 

Youth sighed, " Which rose make ours, 

Which lily leave and then as best recall? " 

Not that, admiring stars, 10 

It yearned, " Nor Jove, nor Mars ; 

Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all ! " 

III 
Not for such hopes and fears 
Annulling youth's brief years. 

Do I remonstrate ; folly wide the mark ! 15 

Rather I prize the doubt 
Low kinds exist without. 
Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. 

IV 

Poor vaunt of life indeed. 

Were man but formed to feed 20 

On joy, to solely seek and find and feast ; 

Such feasting ended, then 

As sure an end to men ; 

Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast? 

V 

Rejoice we are allied 25 

To That which doth provide 

And not partake, effect and not receive ! 

A spark disturbs our clod ; 

Nearer we hold of God 

Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe. 30 

VI 

Then, welcome each rebuff 

That turns earth's smoothness rough. 

Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go ! 

Be our joys three-parts pain ! 



3IO BROWNING 

Strive, and hold cheap the strain ; 35 

Learn, nor account the pang ; dare, never grudge the throe ! 

VII 

For thence, — a paradox 

Which comforts while it mocks, — 

Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail : 

What I aspired to be, 40 

And was not, comforts me : 

A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. 

VIII 

What is he but a brute 

Whose flesh hath soul to suit. 

Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? 45 

To man, propose this test — 

Thy body at its best, 

How far can that project thy soul on its lone way ? 

IX 

Yet gifts should prove their use : 

I own the Past profuse 50 

Of power each side, perfection every turn : 

Eyes, ears took in their dole, 

Brain treasured up the whole ; 

Should not the heart beat once " How good to live and learn?" 

X 

Not once beat " Praise be Thine ! 55 

I see the whole design, 

I, who saw Power, see now Love perfect too : 

Perfect I call Thy plan : 

Thanks that I was a man ! 

Maker, remake, complete, — I trust what Thou shall do ! " 60 

XI 

For pleasant is this flesh ; 
Our soul, in its rose-mesh 
Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest : 



RABBI BEN EZRA 31I 

Would we some prize might hold 

To match those manifold 65 

Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as we did best ! 

XII 

Let us not always say, 

" Spite of this flesh to-day 

I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole 1 " 

As the bird wings and sings, 70 

Let us cry " All good things 

Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul ! " 

XIII 

Therefore I summon age 

To grant youth's heritage. 

Life's struggle having so f^ir reached its term : 75 

Thence shall I pass, approved 

A man, for aye removed 

From the developed brute ; a God though in the germ. 

XIV 

And I shall thereupon 

Take rest, ere I be gone 80 

Once more on my adventure brave and new : 

Fearless and unperplexed. 

When I wage battle next. 

What weapons to select, what armor to indue. 

XV 

Youth ended, I shall try 85 

My gain or loss thereby ; 

Leave the fire-ashes, what survives is gold : 

And I shall weigh the same, 

Give life its praise or blame : 

Young, all lay in dispute ; I shall know, being old. 90 

XVI 

For note, when evening shuts, 

A certain moment cuts 

The deed off", calls the glory from the gray : 



312 BROWNING 

A whisper from the west 

Shoots — " Add this to the rest, 95 

Take it and try its worth : here dies another day." 

XVII 

So, still within this life, 

Though lifted o'er its strife 

Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, 

" This rage was right i' the main, 100 

That acquiescence vain : 

The Future I may face now I have proved the Past." 

XVIII 

For more is not reserved 

To man with soul just nerved 

To act to-morrow what he learns to-day : 105 

Here, work enough to watch 

The Master work, and catch 

Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. 

XIX 

As it was better, youth 

Should strive, through acts uncouth, no 

Toward making, than repose on aught found made : 

So, better, age, exempt 

From strife, should know, than tempt 

Further. Thou waitedst age : wait death, nor be afraid ! 

XX 

Enough now, if the Right 115 

And Good and Infinite 

Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, 

With knowledge absolute. 

Subject to no dispute 

From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. 120 

XXI 

Be there, for once and all. 
Severed great minds from small, 
Announced to each his station in the Past ! 



RABBI BEN EZRA 313 

Was I, the world arraigned, 

Were they, my soul disdained, 125 

Right ? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last ! 

XXII 

Now, who shall arbitrate? 

Ten men love what I hate, 

Shun what I follow, slight what I receive ; 

Ten, who in ears and eyes 130 

Match me : we all surmise. 

They this thing, and I that : whom shall my soul believe? 

XXIII 

Not on the vulgar mass 

Called "work," must sentence pass. 

Things done, that took the eye and had the price ; 135 

O'er which, from level stand. 

The low world laid its hand. 

Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice : 

XXIV 

But all, the world's coarse thumb 

And finger failed to plumb, 140 

So passed in making up the main account ; 

All instincts immature, 

All purposes unsure, 

That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount : 

XXV 

Thoughts hardly to be packed 145 

Into a narrow act, 

Fancies that broke through language and escaped ; 

All I could never be, 

All, men ignored in me. 

This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. 150 

XXVI 

Ay, note that Potter's wheel, 
That metaphor ! and feel 



314 BROWNING 

Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay, — 

Thou, to whom fools propound, 

When the wine makes its round, 155 

" Since life fleets, all is change ; the Past gone, seize to-day ! " 

XXVII 

Fool ! All that is, at all, 

Lasts ever, past recall ; 

Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure : 

What entered into thee, 160 

That was, is, and shall be : 

Time's wheel runs back or stops : Potter and clay endure. 

XXVIII 

He fixed thee mid this dance 

Of plastic circumstance. 

This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest : 165 

Machinery just meant 

To give thy soul its bent. 

Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed. 



What though the earlier grooves. 

Which ran the laughing loves, 170 

Around thy base, no longer pause and press ? 

What though, about thy rim. 

Skull-things in order grim 

Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress? 

XXX 

Look not thou down but up ! 1-5 

To uses of a cup, 

The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, 
The new wine's foaming flow. 
The Master's lips aglow ! 

Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou with earth's 
wheel? 180 



EPILOGUE 315 

XXXI 
But I need, now as then, 
Thee, God, who mouldest men ; 
And since, not even while the whirl was worst, 
Did I — to the wheel of life 

With shapes and colors rife, 185 

Bound dizzily — mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst : 

XXXII 

So, take and use Thy work : 

Amend what flaws may lurk, 

What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim ! 

My times be in Thy hand ! 190 

Perfect the cup as planned ! 

Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same ! 



EPILOGUE 

(to asolando) 

At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time, 

When you set your fancies free, 
Will they pass to where — by death, fools think, imprisoned — 
Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so, 

— Pity me ? 5 

Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken ! 

What had I on earth to do 
With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? 
Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless did I drivel 

— Being — who ? 10 

One who never turned his back but marched breast forward. 

Never doubted clouds would break, 
Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would 

triumph, 
Held we fall to rise, are bafiied to fight better. 

Sleep to wake. 15 



3l6 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 

No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time 

Greet the unseen with a cheer I 
Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, 
" Strive and thrive ! " cry " Speed, — fight on, fare ever 

There as here ! " 20 

MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-1888) 

In our survey of Victorian poets we began with Macaulay, whose stir- 
ring verses are essentially " popular " and especially suited to the appre- 
ciation of the youthful and the average reader. We shall close the list 
with Arnold, who could not tolerate Macaulay, sneered at what he called 
his "pinchbeck Lays of Ancient Ronie,'^ and cared nothing for the aver- 
age reader; who, indeed, perhaps more than any other English poet, 
appeals directly and almost exclusively to the cultivated taste of the 
educated class. As time goes on it seems more and more certain that 
Matthew Arnold is destined "to live" in the esteem of this growing and 
important body of readers. As to the style of his poetry, we may 
merely call attention to its intellectual, almost academic tone, its classic 
purity and restraint, its subtlety of thought and delicacy of feeling, for 
in many respects he is the most Greek of our modern poets. 

A certain prevailing note in Arnold's poetry deserves a word of dis- 
cussion. His mind was compounded of keen intellectuality on the one 
hand and intense spirituality on the other. He was unable to bring 
these two elements into solution, for his intellectual honesty refused 
to carry him to the heights where his desires and feelings pointed the 
way. Much of his poetry was consequently the expression of doubt — 
the earlier poems even of despair. He had little of the aggressive opti- 
mism which characterized Browning, whom he liked, and Tennyson, 
whom he vastly underrated. Neither had he any great measure of that 
trusting faith and spiritual insight which distinguished Wordsworth — 
the poet of all poets whom he sincerely admired and acknowledged as 
his master. His was rather a dignified, sweet, and mournful question- 
ing of Providence, attended by a calm and ready resignation to the 
inevitable. Though of rich scholarship and active mind, he was not a 
constructive artist. He was rather an interpreter of other minds and 
phases of thought than a seer. Yet Arnold was distinctively a modern 
man who looked at life and its problems from a modern point of view. 
And though, as we have intimated, he often is doubtful of a satisfactory 
solution of these problems, it is none the less true that he everywhere 
insists on the necessity of an earnest, self-reliant endeavor to solve 
them. 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 317 

Arnold devoted only the earlier years of his life to poetry ; the later 
years were almost wholly given over to prose. While his poetry seemed 
to be an attempt to criticise life from the point of view of the feelings, 
his prose was a criticism of life from the point of view of intellect. The 
former is therefore marked by conflict and questionings ; the latter by 
directness and decisiveness. Accordingly, whatever may be Matthew 
Arnold's ultimate reputation as a poet, his prose will undoubtedly en- 
title him to consideration as one of the most important figures in nine- 
teenth-century criticism. 

1822-1845. — Arnold was born on Christmas Eve, 1822, at Laleham, 
a little town some twenty miles west of London. His father. Dr. 
Thomas Arnold, the famous headmaster of Rugby, was a writer of no 
little prominence, and one of the most honored, best loved teachers the 
world has ever known. Young Arnold's early education was received 
largely under his father's eye at Rugby ; and there in his eighteenth 
year he won a scholarship in Balliol College, Oxford. After four years' 
residence at the University, he was elected to a fellowship in Oriel — 
a distinguished honor which had also fallen to his father some thirty 
years before. His scholastic attainments, both from college training 
and from subsequent study, were of the highest order. Next after 
Milton and Gray he may be reckoned as perhaps the most learned of 
English poets. 

1845-1857. — Shortly after obtaining his fellowship, Arnold left col- 
lege. He taught Latin and Greek at Rugby for a time ; then, in 1847, 
became private secretary to Lord Lansdowne — a position which he 
held for four years. His first volume of verse was published in 1849, 
when he was twenty-six years of age. Though this little book con- 
tained several of his best poems, — The Forsaken Mer?nan and the 
So?met on Shakespeare among others, — it attracted almost no attention 
and was soon withdrawn from circulation. Three years later a second 
volume appeared, with like results, though it included such excellent 
representation of Greek thought as the Etnpedocles on Etna. The 
next year a third volume was published, containing, among other new 
poems, Reqidescat, The Scholar Gypsy, and Sohrab and Rustuni, the 
last of which is sometimes considered to be the author's masterpiece. 
But the prose essay which preceded this third volume, and gave utter- 
ance to Arnold's theories of poetry, was probably the most important 
of his writings so far, for it was the first of his long line of brilliant, 
critical prose works. In 1855 appeared Balder Dead, one of his longer 
and more highly polished poems. By this time, though his circle of 
readers was not large, his reputation as a poet was assured and led to 
his election, in 1857, to the Professorship of Poetry at Oxford. 



3l8 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 

Unlike most of the great poets of the century, Arnold was not solely 
a literary man. In 1851, the year of his marriage, he accepted from 
Lord Lansdowne an appointment as Inspector of Schools, and for 
thirty-five years gave himself up faithfully to the laborious duties of 
that position. He was not a man of means, and. his literary produc- 
tions were never popular enough to be especially remunerative ; hence 
the moderate salary connected with his office was really a necessity. 
Though the routine of his position was often distasteful, he put his 
best efforts into his official duties, and is reckoned as one of England's 
foremost educational leaders. 

1857-1888. — Arnold's chair at Oxford was not that of a resident 
professor. His compensation was small, but his duties were few. 
Although he held his professorship ten years, most of the time he could 
spare from his duties as School Inspector was spent in writing. His 
tragedy of Merope, " a Greek play in English dress," was published in 
1858. His famous Essays in Criticism appeared in 1865. His volume 
of Mew Poons, two years later, almost the last of his poetical efforts, 
included Dover Beach and T/iyrsis, the latter a lament called forth by 
the death of his friend Clough, and often reckoned among the great 
English elegies. For the remaining twenty years of his life, Arnold's 
work consisted almost entirely of prose essays in criticism, philosophy, 
and religion. He lectured in the United States in 1883, and again 
three years later, at which time he resigned the educational office he 
had held so long. His busy life was soon after suddenly ended by 
heart disease, March, 1888. 

In selecting poems of Arnold for this book, we have, except in the 
case of Dover Beach, purposely avoided those which are most typical, 
— poems of the doubtful or sceptical mood, — and have chosen a few of 
the more attractive productions in lyrical strain. Rugby Chapel was a lov- 
ing memorial to his father, written in 1857 — fifteen years after Thomas 
Arnold's death. The dates of the other poems have been given above. 



THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 

Come, dear children, let us away ; 
Down and away below ! 
Now niy brothers call from the bay, 
Now the great winds shoreward blow. 
Now the salt tides seaward flow ; 
Now the wild white horses play, 



THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 319 

Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. 
Children dear, let us away ! 
This way, this way ! 

Call her once before you go — 10 

Call once yet ! 

In a voice that she will know : 

" Margaret ! Margaret ! " 

Children's voices should be dear 

(Call once more) to a mother's ear ; 15 

Children's voices, wild with pain — 

Surely she will come again ! 

Call her once and come away ; 

This way, this way ! 

" Mother dear, we cannot stay ! 20 

The wild white horses foam and fret." 

Margaret ! Margaret ! 

Come, dear children, come away down ; 

Call no more ! 

One last look at the white-wall'd town, 25 

And the little grey church on the windy shore ; 

Then come down ! 

She will not come though you call all day ; 

Come away, come away ! 

Children dear, was it yesterday 30 

We heard the sweet bells over the bay ? 

In the caverns where we lay. 

Through the surf and through the swell, 

The far-off sound of a silver bell ? 

Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, 35 

Where the winds are all asleep ; 

Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, 

Where the salt weed sways in the stream, 

Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, 

Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground ; 40 

Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, 

Dry their mail and bask in the brine ; 



320 ARNOLD 

Where great whales come sailing by, 

Sail and sail, with unshut eye. 

Round the world for ever and aye ? 45 

When did music come this way ? 

Children dear, was it yesterday ? 

Children dear, was it yesterday 

(Call yet once) that she went away ? 

Once she sate with you and me, 50 

On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea. 

And the youngest sate on her knee. 

She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well. 

When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. 

She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea ; 55 

She said : " I must go, for my kinsfolk pray 

In the little grey church on the shore to-day, 

'Twill be Easter-time in the world — ah me ! 

And I lose my poor soul, Merman ! here with thee." 

I said : " Go up, dear heart, through the waves ; 60 

Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves ! " 

She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. 

Children dear, was it yesterday ? 

Children dear, were we long alone ? 
" The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan ; 65 

Long prayers," I said, " in the world they say ; 
Come ! " I said ; and we rose through the surf in the bay. 
We went up the beach, by the sandy down 
Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town ; 
Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, 70 
To the little grey church on the windy hill. 
From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, 
But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. 
We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, 
And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. 
She sate by the pillar ; we saw her clear : 76 

" Margaret, hist ! come quick, we are here ! 
Dear heart," I said, " we are long alone ; 
The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan." 



THE FORSAKEN MERMAN %2\ 

But, ah, she gave me never a look, 80 

For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book ! 
Loud prays the priest ; shut stands the door. 
Come away, children, call no more ! 
Come away, come down, call no more ! 

Down, down, down ! 85 

Down to the depths of the sea ! 

She sits at her wheel in the humming town, 

Singing most joyfully. 

Hark what she sings : " O joy, O joy, 

For the humming street, and the child with its toy! 90 

For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well ; 

For the wheel where I spun. 

And the blessed light of the sun ! " 

And so she sings her fill, 

Singing most joyfully, 95 

Till the spindle drops from her hand, 

And the whizzing wheel stands still. 

She steals to the window, and looks at the sand, 

And over the sand at the sea ; 

And her eyes are set in a stare ; 100 

And anon there breaks a sigh. 

And anon there drops a tear. 

From a sorrow-clouded eye. 

And a heart sorrow-laden, 

A long, long sigh ; 105 

For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden 

And the gleam of her golden hair. 

Come away, away children ; 
Come children, come down ! 

The hoarse wind blows coldly ; no 

Lights shine in the town. 
She will start from her slumber 
When gusts shake the door ; 
She will hear the winds howling. 
Will hear the waves roar. 115 



322 ARNOLD 

We shall see, while above us 

The waves roar and whirl, 

A ceiling of amber, 

A pavement of pearl. 

Singing: " Here came a mortal, 120 

But faithless was she ! 

And alone dwell for ever 

The kings of the sea." 

But, children, at midnight. 

When soft the winds blow, 125 

When clear falls the moonlight, 

When spring-tides are low ; 

When sweet airs come seaward 

From heaths starr'd with broom, 

And high rocks throw mildly 130 

On the blanch 'd sands a gloom ; 

Up the still, glistening beaches, 

Up the creeks we will hie. 

Over banks of bright seaweed 

The ebb-tide leaves dry. 135 

We will gaze, from the sand-hills. 

At the white, sleeping town ; 

At the church on the hill-side — 

And then come back down. 

Singing : " There dwells a loved one, 140 

But cruel is she ! 

She left lonely for ever 

The kings of the sea." 

RUGBY CHAPEL 

NOVEMBER, 1857 

Coldly, sadly descends 
The autumn evening. The field 
Strewn with its dank yellow drifts 
Of wither'd leaves, and the elms, 



RUGBY CHAPEL 323 

Fade into dimness apace, 5 

Silent ; — hardly a shout 

From a few boys late at their play ! 

The lights come out in the street, 

In the school-room windows ; — but cold. 

Solemn, unlighted, austere, 10 

Through the gathering darkness, arise 

The chapel-walls, in whose bound 

Thou, my father ! art laid. 

There thou dost lie, in the gloom 

Of the autumn evening. But ah ! 15 

That word, gloom, to my mind 

Brings thee back, in the light 

Of thy radiant vigour, again ; 

In the gloom of November we pass'd 

Days not dark at thy side ; 20 

Seasons impair 'd not the ray 

Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear. 

Such thou wast ! and I stand 

In the autumn evening, and think 

Of bygone autumns with thee. 25 

Fifteen years have gone round 

Since thou arosest to tread. 

In the summer-morning, the road 

Of death, at a call unforeseen, 

Sudden. For fifteen years, 3° 

We who till then in thy shade 

Rested as under the boughs 

Of a mighty oak, have endured 

Sunshine and rain as we might, 

Bare, unshaded, alone, 35 

Lacking the shelter of thee. 

O strong soul, by what shore 
Tarriest thou now ? For that force, 
Surely, has not been left vain ! 



324 ARNOLD 



Somewhere, surely, afar, 40 

In the sounding labour-house vast 
Of being, is practised the strength 
Zealous, beneficent, firm ! 

Yes, in some far-shining sphere. 

Conscious or not of the past, 45 

Still thou performest the word 

Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live — 

Prompt, unwearied, as here ! 

Still thou upraisest with zeal 

The humble good from the ground, 50 

Sternly repressest the bad ! 

Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse 

Those who with half-open eyes 

Tread the border-land dim 

'Twixt vice and virtue ; reviv'st, 55 

Succourest ! — this was thy work, 

This was thy life upon earth. 

What is the course of the life 

Of mortal men on the earth ? — 

Most men eddy about 60 

Here and there — eat and drink, 

Chatter and love and hate. 

Gather and squander, are raised 

Aloft, are hurl'd in the dust, 

Striving blindly, achieving 65 

Nothing; and then they die — 

Perish ; — and no one asks 

Who or what they have been. 

More than he asks what waves, 

In the moonlit solitudes mild 70 

Of the midmost Ocean, have swell'd, 

Foam'd for a moment, and gone. 

And there are some, whom a thirst 
Ardent, unquenchable, fires, 



RUGBY CHAPEL 325 

Not with the crowd to be spent, 75 

Not without aim to go round 

In an eddy of purposeless dust, 

Effort unmeaning and vain. 

Ah yes ! some of us strive 

Not without action to die 80 

Fruitless, but something to snatch 

From dull oblivion, nor all 

Glut the devouring grave ! 

We, we have chosen our path — 

Path to a clear purposed goal, 85 

Path of advance ! — but it leads 

A long, steep journey, through sunk 

Gorges, o'er mountains in snow. 

Cheerful, with friends, we set forth — 

Then, on the height, comes the storm. 90 

Thunder crashes from rock 

To rock, the cataracts reply, 

Lightnings dazzle our eyes. 

Roaring torrents have breach'd 

The track, the stream-bed descends 95 

In the place where the wayfarer once 

Planted his footstep — the spray 

Boils o'er its borders ! aloft 

The unseen snow-beds dislodge 

Their hanging ruin ; alas, 100 

Havoc is made in our train ! 

Friends, who set forth at our side, 

Falter, are lost in the storm. 

We, we only are left ! 

With frowning foreheads, with lips 105 

Sternly compress'd, we strain on, 

On — and at nightfall at last 

Come to the end of our way, 

To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks ; 

Where the gaunt and taciturn host no 

Stands on the threshold, the wind 

Shaking his thin white hairs — 



326 ARNOLD 



Holds his lantern to scan 

Our storm-beat figures, and asks 

Whom in our party we bring ? 115 

Whom we have left in the snow ? 

Sadly we answer : We bring 

Only ourselves ! we lost 

Sight of the rest in the storm. 

Hardly ourselves we fought through, 120 

Stripp'd, without friends, as we are. 

Friends, companions, and train, 

The avalanche swept from our side. 

But thou would 'st not alone 

Be saved, my father ! alone 125 

Conquer and come to thy goal, 

Leaving the rest in the wild. 

We were weary, and we 

Fearful, and we in our march 

P'ain to drop down and to die. 130 

Still thou turnedst, and still 

Beckonedst the trembler, and still 

Gavest the weary thy hand. 

If, in the paths of the world, 

Stones might have wounded thy feet, 135 

Toil or dejection have tried 

Thy spirit, of that we saw 

Nothing — to us thou wast still 

Cheerful, and helpful, and firm! 

Therefore to thee it was given 140 

Many to save with thyself ; 

And, at the end of thy day, 

O faithful shepherd ! to come, 

Bringing thy sheep in thy hand. 

And through thee I believe 145 

In the noble and great who are gone ; 
Pure souls honour'd and blest 



RUGBY CHAPEL 327 

By former ages, who else — 

Such, so soulless, so poor, 

Is the race of men whom I see — 150 

Seem'd but a dream of the heart, 

Seem'd but a cry of desire. 

Yes ! I believe that there lived 

Others like thee in the past. 

Not like the men of the crowd 155 

Who all round me to-day 

Bluster or cringe, and make life 

Hideous, and arid, and vile ; 

But souls temper'd with fire, 

Fervent, heroic, and good, 160 

Helpers and friends of mankind. 

Servants of God ! — or sons 

Shall I not call you ? because 

Not as servants ye knew 

Your Father's innermost mind, 165 

His, who unwillingly sees 

One of his little ones lost — 

Yours is the praise, if mankind 

Hath not as yet in its march 

Fainted, and fallen, and died ! 170 

See ! In the rocks of the world 

Marches the host of mankind, 

A feeble, wavering line. 

Where are they tending ? — A God 

Marshall'd them, gave them their goal. 175' 

Ah, but the way is so long ! 

Years they have been in the wild ! 

Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks, 

Rising all round, overawe ; 

Factions divide them, their host 180 

Threatens to break, to dissolve. 

— Ah, keep, keep them combined! 

Else of the myriads who fill 



328 ARNOLD 

That army, not one shall arrive ; 

Sole they shall stray ; in the rocks 185 

Stagger for ever in vain, 

Die one by one in the waste. 

Then, in such hour of need 

Of your fainting, dispirited race, 

Ye, like angels, appear, 190 

Radiant with ardour divine ! 

Beacons of hope, ye appear I 

Languor is not in your heart, 

Weakness is not in your word, 

Weariness not on your brow. 195 

Ye alight in our van ! at your voice, 

Panic, despair, flee away. 

Ye move through the ranks, recall 

The stragglers, refresh the outworn, 

Praise, re-inspire the brave ! 200 

Order, courage, return. 

Eyes rekindling, and prayers, 

Follow your steps as ye go. 

Ye fill up the gaps in our files, 

Strengthen the wavering line, 205 

Stablish, continue our march, 

On, to the bound of the waste, 

On, to the City of God. 

DOVER BEACH 

The sea is calm to-night. 

The tide is full, the moon lies fair 

Upon the straits ; — on the French coast the light 

Gleams and is gone ; the cliffs of England stand. 

Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. 5 

Come to the window, sweet is the night-air ! 

Only, from the long line of spray 

Where the sea meets the moon-blanch 'd sand, 

Listen ! you hear the grating roar 



REQUIESCAT 329 

Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, 10 

At their return, up the high strand, 
Begin, and cease, and then again begin, 
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring 
The eternal note of sadness in. 

Sophocles long ago 15 

Heard it on the ^gean, and it brought 

Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow 

Of human misery ; we 

Find also in the sound a thought. 

Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 20 

The sea of faith 
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore 
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. 
But now I only hear 

Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 25 

Retreating, to the breath 

Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear 
And naked shingles of the world. 

Ah, love, let us be true 

To one another ! for the world, which seems 30 

To lie before us like a land of dreams, 

So various, so beautiful, so new. 

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, 

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain ; 

And we are here as on a darkling plain 35 

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, 

Where ignorant armies clash by night. 



REQUIESCAT 

Strew on her roses, roses, 
And never a spray of yew 1 

In quiet she reposes ; 

Ah, would that I did so too 1 



330 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 

Her mirth the world required ; 5 

She bathed it in smiles of glee. 
But her heart was tired, tired, 

And now they let her be. 

Her life was turning, turning, 

In mazes of heat and sound, 10 

But for peace her heart was yearning, 

And now peace laps her round. 

Her cabin'd, ample spirit, 

It fiutter'd and fail'd for breath. 
To-night it doth inherit 15 

The vasty hall of death. 

5. THE POETRY OF CHIVALRY 

Under this heading we have included several of the most delightful of 
modern English poems. One of them is the work of an American — the 
only American poem in this volume. The others are the work of Tennyson, 
and form a part of the wonderful series which their author has grouped 
together as Idylls of Ike King. They are all derived from early Celtic 
legend, and have been preserved through British tradition and English 
literature for more than a thousand years. The following is a very 
brief account of the origin and history of the legends treated in these 
poems . 

Sometime shortly before 11 50 a Welsh priest, Geoffrey of Monmouth 
as he was called, put together in twelve short books of Latin prose what 
purported to be a history of the early kings of Britain {Historia Reguin 
BritannicE^. Beside the stories of King Lear and of Locrine (father 
of the Sabrina of Milton's Co»ms), this " history " entered fully into an 
account of the more than half-legendary " King Arthur,'' who is fabled 
to have died about 550 A.D., or six hundred years before the time 
of Geoffrey. Geoffrey says that he derived his stories from earlier 
Celtic writers ; he was certainly indebted to early Celtic tradition, 
perhaps of Brittany as well as of Wales and Ireland. This so-called 
History had scarcely been written before it was turned into French 
verse by a certain Geoffrey Gaimar, and in this way it passed over into 
France. Not more than five years elapsed when it was retranslated 
and added to by Wace, another poet of the Norman-French ; and thus 
during the latter part of the twelfth century the story was constantly 



THE POETRY OF CHIVALRY 33 1 

enlarged and altered, in verse and in prose, by the writers of both Eng- 
land and the Continent. Among the additions of this period was that 
of Walter Map, a Welshman, who is supposed to have combined with 
the original Arthurian legend the legend of the Holy Grail. 

So far the story had appeared only in the original Latin of Geoffrey, 
and in the French or Norman-French versions of his translators. But 
about 1205 an English priest named Layamon felt inspired to tell in his 
own language the story of those " who first had English land.'' Accord- 
ingly, from the translations of Wace and other Normans, as well as from 
Celtic legends and Teutonic sagas which he himself knew, he built up, 
in the purest of English verse, a wonderful poem of over thirty thousand 
lines. This poem he called the Brut^ from the reputed founder of 
Britain, Brutus, great-grandson of yEneas. In this poem the original 
story gains numerous additions which, so far as known, had not before 
appeared in written form. Among these are the episodes of the found- 
ing of the Round Table, and of the mysteries attending the birth and 
the " passing" of Arthur. 

From the first '• King Arthur " proved the favorite of the many roman- 
tic tales which stirred the imagination and exercised the invention of 
French and Norman writers in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. 
The variations of the legend and the additions to it became almost num- 
berless, yet, strange to say, it was nearly a hundred years after the time 
of Layamon before it again found its way into an English version. But 
this tardiness is at last well compensated for by the merits of theiJ/w/6' 
Darthiir. This was written by Sir Thomas Malory about 1470, and 
printed some fifteen years later as one of the hundred works which came 
from the press of Caxton. The book consisted of a translation of the va- 
rious French legends of the Round Table and the combination of them in 
one splendid " prose-poem," couched in the richest and most melodious 
English. This work of Malory not only is important because it pre- 
served to the English-speaking world the stories of Arthur and his 
knights ; it is also, in its own right, probably the finest English literary 
production of the fifteenth century. 

Since the time of Malory many poets have made use of the Arthurian 
story, chief among them Tennyson in his splendid Idylls of the King. 
But before we enter into an examination of the Idylls, we shall turn to 
an American poet, who, like Tennyson, has infused into this story of 
early chivalry a moral force and ethical significance which had little 
place with early English romance or early Celtic bard. The characters 
of the Idylls of tlie King are set " in a rich and varied landscape." The 
action is large, the actors many. To these stirring poems The Vision 
of Sir Lminfal forms both a contrast and a supplement. Though not 
dealing with a hero of the Round Table or with the events of King 



332 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 

Arthur's reign, it is none the less a poem of chivalry in the truest and 
best sense of that word. We shall, therefore say something concerning 
its author, America's most representative man of letters, James Russell 
Lowell. 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL (1819-1891) 

We have been discussing Matthew Arnold — poet, critic, teacher, man 
of public activities. We come now to the consideration of James 
Russell Lowell, also poet, critic, teacher, and man of affairs. Though 
the latter was no doubt the better balanced, the more wholesome, and 
the sunnier of the two, perhaps the more gifted in varied capability, the 
parallel between them is nevertheless striking and suggestive. Nearly 
twenty years ago and during the lifetime of both poets, Mr. Edmund 
Clarence Stedman, in his Poets of A>/ie?-ica, said: '"Lowell and Arnold, 
poets nearly equal in years, both scholars, both original thinkers, occupy 
representative positions — the one in the Old England and the other 
in the New — which are singularly correspondent. Two things, how- 
ever, are to be noted. The American has the freer hand and wider 
range as a poet. Humor, dialect verse, and familiar epistles come to 
him as naturally as his stateliest odes. Again, while both poets feel the 
perplexities of the time, Arnold's difficulties are the more restrictive of 
his poetic glow; with him the impediments are spiritual. With Lowell 
they are material, and to be overcome. Like Mr. Arnold, Lowell also 
feels the questioning spirit of our age of unrest ; but his nature is too 
various and healthy to be depressed by it. The cloud rests more dur- 
ably on Arnold. Lowell always has one refuge. Give him a touch of 
Motlier Earth, a breath of free air, one flash of sunshine, and he is no 
longer a book man and a brooder ; his blood runs riot with the spring ; 
this inborn, poetic elasticity is the best gift of the gods. Faith and joy 
are the ascensive forces of song." 

This parallel is noteworthy partly because of its aptness, partly be- 
cause it suggests an answer to the query with which we are so familiar, 
" How do the best poets of our country compare in ability and achieve- 
ment with the greater poets of England ? " It is unquestionably true 
that America has as yet produced no poetic genius who can rank with 
the greatest among the masters of English poetry — no Chaucer nor 
Spenser, no Shakespeare nor Milton, no Wordsworth nor Tennyson. 
But it is no less true that our greater American poets have created a 
literature which is distinctive and representative ; and that, measured 
by the very best of the second rank of English poets, their position is, 
to say the least, an honorable one. Matthew Arnold was a very dis- 
tinguished representative of literary England. But we are undoubtedly 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 333 

safe in saying that of the many points of likeness between Arnold and 
Lowell there are few in which the American is not the superior. 

As to his American contemporaries, Lowell outranks them chiefly in 
the quality of many-sidedness. His place is very high whether he be 
judged as scholar, diplomat, critic, humorist, writer of brilliant and 
luminous prose, or poet thoroughly representative of the best that 
American culture has yet produced. But above and beyond all this 
he was a Man^ a splendid type of all that is highest and noblest in 
American citizenship. 

1819-1838. — James Russell Lowell was born Febniary 22, 1819, 
just outside of Cambridge, Massachusetts, about a mile from Harvard 
University. His father, Charles Lowell, was for over half a century 
a Congregational minister in the West Church of Boston. Lowell 
was born and lived and died in a fine old country mansion called 
Elmwood, whose garden, meadow, spreading trees, and lilac hedges 
had no slight influence in arousing in the future poet a passionate love 
of nature. In his father's library was an excellent collection of 
standard literature, and there the future scholar first made acquaint- 
ance with the world of books. When fifteen years of age Lowell 
entered Harvard College, then an institution ot only about two hundred 
and fifty students ; and after an uneventful course of four years he took 
his degree in 1838. But though the young collegian was strikingly 
indifferent to the prescribed work of his curriculum, he must in some 
way have given evidence of the stuff of wliich he was made, for his 
friend. Dr. Edward Everett Hale, says of him thirty years later, " The 
year Lowell graduated we were as sure as we are now that in him was 
first-rate poetical genius, and that here was to be one of the leaders of 
the literature of the time." 

1838-1848. — After his graduation Lowell studied law and was ad- 
mitted to the bar. Discovering, however, that he had little taste for 
the legal profession, he soon abandoned it. About this time, 1841, 
appeared his first literary venture — a little volume of poems entitled 
A Year's Life. A second volume, which followed three years later, 
marks a distinct advance in his powers. This was the year also of his 
marriage to Maria White, a woman of noble character, who exerted no 
small influence over the young poet's early work. Four years later 
came another series of poems, The Vision of Sir Launfal, the amusing 
Fable for Critics., and the first instalment of the Biglow Papers, which 
had been for two years running anonymously in the Boston Courier. 
This clever satire was a half-indignant, half-humorous protest against 
the war with Mexico, and was at once recognized as unique, in fact, one 
of the most original poems ever written. Lowell was now thirty years 



334 i''^^^ NINETEENTH CENTURY 

of ;i<i;c, and Iiad at last caiiL;Iit tlic |)iil)lir car. II is witli tlic work of 
1.S4.S that liis lame as a poet ri-ally hcf^aii. 

1848 1877. During 1851 and l<S52 l.owcU spent a year and a liaif 
in Juirope will) his wife, whose iiealtii was failing and who died tiie 
next year. In 1855 tiie poet was appointed to the professorslii]) in 
Harvard College of lielles-Lettres and Modern Language and Literature, 
a position which Longfellow had just vacated. After another visit to 
lun-o])e to fit himself more fully for his new duties, Lowell settled down 
in 1856 to nearly twenty years of work as a Harvard professor. At the 
same tinu- lliat he was carrying on his college courses, he was also 
occu])ying the post of editor — iirsl of the Atlantic Monthly \\\\f\ then 
of the North Aint-riaui Review. 'To the latter were contributed many 
of his prose essay.s, most of them on literature and literary men. 
from 1862 to 1866 events connected with the Civil War called forth a 
secontl series of the />i^io7V Papers^ grimmer in humor and more 
intense in feeling than his /ii^lom Papcis of eigliteen years before. 
In 1865 the poet recited at Harvard College ti\e iiohle Coin/nenioration 
Odi\ not only one of his linest poems, but also one ot the fmest odes 
ever written. Other volumes of i)rose and ])oelry appeared during the 
next dozen years. At the end of this period Lowell gave up his work 
as editor and teacher and entered upon his career as public servant. 

1877 1891. — From 1877 to 1880 the poet served as United States 
Minister to Si)ain, and from 1880 to 1885 as Minister to England. By 
his lively intelligence and ready tact, his fairness and l)readth of mind, 
he gained extreme popularity in both countries. I lis rii)e scholarship and 
social talents commended him especially to I'^uglishmen ; and it is safe 
to say that no American ambassador to the court of St. James has ever 
l)een more welcome. Mr. Lowell's second wife, whom he had married 
in 1857, died in I'.ngland in 1885. This same year a change in political 
administration caused him to resign his ])ost and return to the United 
States. The remaining years of the poet's life were spent in lecturing 
and writing, and in revising and republishing his works. His health, 
which had hitherto I)een robust, began to fail ; but in spite of occasional 
|)eriods of intense sulVering he never lost that geniality wliich so 
endeared him to his friends. We have compared Lowell to Matthew 
Arnold and, indeed, they were alike in many ways. Hut as a vivid 
contrast to Arnold's philosophy of doubt we may quote a few words 
which Lowell wrote in a letter to a friend not long before his death : 
" I don't care where the notion of immortality came from. It is there, 
and I nu'.m to hold it fast. There is something in the ilesh th.it is 
superior to the Ilesh. something that can in liner moments aliolish 
matter and pain. y\nd it is to lliis we must cling." He died in 
August. i8(;i. 



Tin-: I7S/().V OF S/A' J.AVNI'AI. 335 

The Visio)! i>f Sir Laiiiifal, wiillni wlicn Lowell was only twciilv- 
nine years of age, is coiisidL'ivd by many to stand at tlir hii^li-watcr 
mark of American poetry. It is a poem especially W()rtli\ olOur study, 
since it so admirably shows the m'liius of its author both as poet of 
nature and as poet of the philosophy of lile. 

'Jill': VISION OK SIK LAUNl'AL 

I'KKl.UDK, TO I'AkT KIRSI' 

Ovicu his keys the imising organist, 

Bcginniiij; doubtfully and far away, 
First lets his fingers wander as they list. 

And builds a bridpje from Dreanilaiul for his lay: 
Then, as the touch of his loved inslrunienl 5 

(iives hope and fervor, nearer draws his tlu-nie, 
]*'irst <i;ui'ssed by faint atn7)ral Hushes sent 

Aloiit; the waxcrin^ \ ista of his dream. 



Not only around our infancy 

Doth heaven with all its s|)lendors lie; lo 

Daily, with souls that (■riii<;e and plot. 

We Sinais clind) and know it not. 

Over oin^ manhood bend the skies ; 

A<;ainst our fallen and traitor lives 
The fjjreat winds utter })r()phecii's : 15 

With our faint hearts the mountain slrix'es; 
Its arms outstretched, the druid wood 

Waits with its benedicite ; 
And to our aj^e's drowsy blood 

Still shouts the insi)irin^ sea. 20 

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us ; 

The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in. 
The priest hath his fee who conies and shrives us. 

We bargain for the graves we lie in ; 
At the Devil's booth are all things sold, 25 



336 LOWELL 

Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold ; 

For a cap and bells our lives we pay, 
Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: 

'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 
'Tis only God may be had for the asking ; 30 

No price is set on the lavish summer ; 
June may be had by the poorest comer. 

And what is so rare as a day in June ? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 35 

And over it softly her warm ear lays : 
Whether we look, or whether we listen, 
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; 
Every clod feels a stir of might, 

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 40 

And, groping blindly above it for light. 

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; 
The flush of life may well be seen 

Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 
The cowslip startles in meadows green, 45 

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean 

To be some happy creature's palace ; 
The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 50 

And lets his illumined being o'errun 

With the deluge of summer it receives ; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings. 
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings ; 
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — 55 

In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best ? 

Now is the high-tide of the year, 

And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, 

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ; 60 

Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, 



THE VISION OF SIR LA UN FA L 337 

We are happy now because God wills it ; 

No matter how barren the past may have been, 

'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green ; 

We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 65 

How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell ; 

We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing 

That skies are clear and grass is growing ; 

The breeze comes whispering in our ear, 

That dandelions are blossoming near, 70 

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, 
That the river is bluer than the sky, 
That the robin is plastering his house hard by; 
And if the breeze kept the good news back. 
For other couriers we should not lack ; 75 

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — 
And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer, 
Warmed with the new wine of the year. 

Tells all in his lusty crowing ! 

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 80 

Everything is happy now, 

Everything is upward striving ; 
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true 
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, — 

'Tis the natural way of living : 85 

Who knows whither the clouds have fled ? 

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake ; 
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, 

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache ; 
The soul partakes of the season's youth, 90 

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, 

Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. 
What wonder if Sir Launfal now 
Remembered the keeping of his vow ? 95 



338 LOWELL 



PART FIRST 



" My golden spurs now bring to me, 

And bring to me my richest mail, 
For to-morK)w I go over land and sea 

In search of the Holy Grail ; 
Shall never a bed for me be spread, loo 

Nor shall a pillow be under my head, 
Till I begin my vow to keep ; 
Here on the rushes will I sleep. 
And perchance there may come a vision true 
Ere day create the world anew." 105 

Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim, 

Slumber fell like a cloud on him, 
And into his soul the vision flew. 



The crows flapped over by twos and threes. 

In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees, no 

The little birds sang as if it were 

The one day of summer in all the year, 
And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees : 
The castle alone in the landscape lay 
Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray : 115 

'Twas the proudest hall in the North Countree, 
And never its gates might opened be, 
Save to lord or lady of high degree ; 
Summer besieged it on every side. 

But the churlish stone her assaults defied ; 120 

She could not scale the chilly wall. 
Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall 
Stretched left and right, 
Over the hills and out of sight ; 

Green and broad was every tent, 125 

And out of each a murmur went 
Till the breeze fell off at night. 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 339 

in 

The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang, 

And through the dark arch a charger sprang, 

Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, 130 

In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright 

It seemed the dark castle had gathered all 

Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall 

In his siege of three hundred summers long, 
And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf, 135 

Had cast them forth : so, young and strong. 
And lightsome as a locust-leaf. 
Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail, 
To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail. 

IV 

It was morning on hill and stream and tree, 140 

And morning in the young knight's heart ; 

Only the castle moodily 

Rebufifed the gifts of the sunshine free. 
And gloomed by itself apart ; 

The season brimmed all other things up 145 

Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup. 



As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate. 

He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same. 
Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate ; 

And a loathing over Sir Launfal came ; 150 

The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill. 

The flesh 'neath his armor 'gan shrink and crawl. 
And midway its leap his heart stood still 

Like a frozen waterfall ; 
For this man, so foul and bent of stature, 155 

Rasped harshly against his dainty nature, 
And seemed the one blot on the summer morn, — 
So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn. 



LOWELL 



VI 



The leper raised not the gold from the dust : 

" Better to me the poor man's crust, i6o 

Better the blessing of the poor, 

Though I turn me empty from his door ; 

That is no true alms which the hand can hold ; 

He gives nothing but worthless gold 

Who gives from a sense of duty ; 165 

But he who gives but a slender mite, 
And gives to that which is out of sight, 

That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty 
Which runs through all and doth all unite, — 
The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, 170 

The heart outstretches its eager palms, 
For a god goes with it and makes it store 
To the soul that was starving in darkness before." 

PRELUDE TO PART SECOND 

Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak, 
From the snow five thousand summers old ; 175 

On open wold and hill-top bleak 
It had gathered all the cold. 

And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek ; 

It carried a shiver everywhere 

From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare ; iSo 

The little brook heard it and built a roof 

'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof; 

All night by the white stars' frosty gleams 

He groined his arches and matched his beams ; 

Slender and clear were his crystal spars 1S5 

As the lashes of light that trim the stars ; 

He sculptured every summer delight 

In his halls and chambers out of sight ; 

Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt 

Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt, 190 

Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stenuned trees 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 341 

Bending to counterfeit a breeze ; 

Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew 

But silvery mosses that downward grew ; 

Sometimes it was carved in sharp rehef 195 

With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf ; 

Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear 

For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here 

He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops 

And hung them thickly with diamond-drops, 200 

That crystalled the beams of moon and sun, 

And made a star of every one : 

No mortal builder's most rare device 

Could match this winter-palace of ice ; 

'Twas as if every image that mirrored lay 205 

In his depths serene through the summer day, 

Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky, 

Lest the happy model should be lost, 
Had been mimicked in fairy masonry 

By the elfin builders of the frost. 210 

Within the hall are song and laughter. 

The cheeks of Christmas grow red and jolly, 
And sprouting is every corbel and rafter 

With lightsome green of ivy and holly ; 
Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide 215 

Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide ; 
The broad flame-pennons droop and flap 

And belly and tug as a flag in the wind ; 
Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, 

Hunted to death in its galleries blind ; 220 

And swift little troops of silent sparks, 

Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear, 
Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks 

Like herds of startled deer. 

But the wind without was eager and sharp, 225 

Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, 
And rattles and wrings 



LOWELL 

The icy strings, 
Singing, in dreary monotone, 

A Christmas carol of its own, 230 

Whose burden still, as he might guess, 
Was — " Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless! " 

The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch 
As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch. 
And he sat in the gateway and saw all night 235 

The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold, 
Through the window-slits of the castle old. 
Build out its piers of ruddy light 
Against the drift of the cold. 

PART SECOND 



There was never a leaf on bush or tree, 240 

The bare boughs rattled shudderingly ; 
The river was dumb and could not speak. 

For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun ; 
A single crow on the tree-top bleak 

From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun ; 245 
Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, 
As if her veins were sapless and old, 
And she rose up decrepitly 
For a last dim look at earth and sea. 



Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate, 250 

For another heir in his earldom sate ; 

An old, bent man, worn out and frail. 

He came back from seeking the Holy Grail ; 

Little he recked of his earldom's loss, 

No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross, 255 

But deep in his soul the sign he wore, 

The badge of the suffering and the poor. 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 343 



III 



Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare 

Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air, 

For it was just at the Christmas time ; 260 

So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime. 

And sought for a shelter from cold and snow 

In the light and warmth of long-ago ; 

He sees the snake-like caravan crawl 

O'er the edge of the desert, black and small, 265 

Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one, 

He can count the camels in the sun. 

As over the red-hot sands they pass 

To where, in its slender necklace of grass. 

The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade, 270 

And with its own self like an infant played, 

And waved its signal of palms. 



IV 



" For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms ; " — 

The happy camels may reach the spring, 

But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome thing, 275 

The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone. 

That cowers beside him, a thing as lone 

And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas 

In the desolate horror of his disease. 



And Sir Launfal said, — " I behold in thee 280 

An image of Him who died on the tree ; 

Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns, — 

Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns, — 

And to thy life were not denied 

The wounds in the hands and feet and side : 285 

Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me ; 

Behold, through him, I give to Thee ! " 



344 LOWELL 



Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes 

And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he 
Remembered in what a haughtier guise 290 

He had flung an alms to leprosie, 
When he girt his young life up in gilded mail 
And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. 
The heart within him was ashes and dust ; 
He parted in twain his single crust, 295 

He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, 
And gave the leper to eat and drink : 
'Twas a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread, 

'Twas water out of a wooden bowl, — 
Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed, 300 

And 'twas red wine he drank with his thirsty soul. 

VII 

As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, 

A light shone round about the place ; 

The leper no longer crouched at his side, 

But stood before him glorified, 305 

Shining and tall and fair and straight 

As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate, — 

Himself the Gate whereby men can 

Enter the temple of God in Man. 



His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine, 310 

And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine, 

That mingle their softness and quiet in one 

With the shaggy unrest they float down upon ; 

And the voice that was calmer than silence said, 

"Lo it is L be not afraid ! 315 

In many climes, without avail. 

Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail ; 

Behold, it is here, — this cup which thou 

Didst fill at the streamlet for Me but now ; 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 345 

This crust is My body broken for thee, 320 

This water His blood that died on the tree ; 

The Holy Supper is kept, indeed, 

In whatso we share with another's need : 

Not what we give, but what we share, — 

For the gift without the giver is bare ; 325 

Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, — 

Himself, his hungering neighbor, and Me." 

IX 

Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound : — 

" The Grail in my castle here is found ! 

Hang my idle armor up on the wall, 330 

Let it be the spider's banquet-hall ; 

He must be fenced with stronger mail 

Who would seek and find the Holy Grail." 



The castle gate stands open now. 

And the wanderer is welcome to the hall 335 

As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough ; 

No longer scowl the turrets tall, 
The Summer's long siege at last is o'er ; 
When the first poor outcast went in at the door, 
She entered with him in disguise, 340 

And mastered the fortress by surprise ; 
There is no spot she loves so well on ground, 
She lingers and smiles there the whole year round ; 
The meanest serf on Sir Launfal 's land 
Has hall and bower at his command ; 345 

And there's no poor men in the North Countree 
But is lord of the earldom as much as he. 



346 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 

TENNYSON'S IDYLLS OF THE KING 

In Professor Maccallum's valuable book on Tennyson's Idylls of the 
King and Arthurian Story we read : " In the Idylls is probably to be 
found the finest development that the cycle of Arthurian story has yet 
attained, or will for long attain. Perhaps it might even be said that 
they deliver the classic version of that story as a whole, and present it 
in the highest perfection of which it is capable. It may be maintained 
that its peculiar merits and defects correspond so closely with the 
inherent limitations and excellencies of Tennyson's genius that in him 
it found its unique predestined interpreter." Let us examine into the 
manner in which the poet serves as the nineteenth-century interpreter 
of mediaeval chivalry. 

Though Tennyson goes directly to Malory for his story, he exercises 
throughout the Idylls an artist's privilege of departing from the original 
whenever such departure seems to be to the advantage of his poem. 
There is no doubt that the subject of the legend appealed to the poet, 
largely on account of the moral significance which he was able to read 
out of it or infuse into it. Not that it is at all necessary or wise to regard 
the whole poem as an allegory, as some critics have tried to do, with each 
separate character or incident standing as the symbol of some abstract 
truth. Such a view of the Idylls would detract greatly from their simple 
epic interest. Still, in a general way, no doubt the ///^'/'//'underlying them, 
as Tennyson himself has said, is to depict " Sense at war with Soul." 
The guilty love of Lancelot and the Queen stands out as the main thread 
of the plot. In every one of the Idylls the blighting influence of their 
sin is felt. The conflict between evil and good is everywhere prominent. 
But though the Round Table is at last dissolved, the spiritual nobility 
of the king towers above the littleness and evil that surround him. We 
feel with Dr. van Dyke, " His life is not a failure, but a glorious success ; 
for it demonstrates the freedom of the will and the strength of the soul 
against the powers of evil and the fate of sin." 

Tennyson's interest in the Arthurian legend is seen as early as 1832, 
when in The Lady of SJialott he foreshadowed, in lyrical form, the 
theme afterward enlarged and modified into Lancelot and Elaine. Ten 
years later the Morte d'' Arthur was published — a poem which later still, 
in unchanged form, appeared as the main portion of the Passingof Arthur, 
the last of the idylls. But the plan of the whole series was, then, evi- 
dently not yet conceived; and it was not till 1859 that the four idylls 
were published which formed its first instalment. In 1869 four more 
were published ; afterward, at scattered inten-als. still others, the last 
not appearing till 1885 — more than half a century after The Lady of 
Shalott. 



CARET II AND LYNETTE 347 

A criticism of this group of poems is hardly needed. It easily ranks 
as one of the most charming series in English poetry. The exquisite 
character sketches, the lively human interest, the dramatic sequence of 
events, the heroic atmosphere, the delicate carved work peculiar to the 
poet's fancy, the splendid blank verse, — all contribute, with many other 
features of excellence, to establish for the series a position of surpassing 
distinction. The following is a full list of the idylls in the order in 
which they were finally arranged, together with the date of each : — 

I. The Coming of Arthur, 1869. 

II. The Round Table: (i) Gareth and Lynette, 1872; (2) The 
Marriage of Geraint, 1859 ; (3) Geraint and Enid, 1859 ; ((2) and (3) 
were originally combined as Enid) ; (4) Balin and Balan, 1885 ; (5) 
Merlin and Vivien, 1859 (first called Vizden) ; (6) Lancelot and Elaine, 
1859 (first called Elaine); (7) The Holy Grail, 1869; (8) Pelleas and 
Ettarre, 1869; (9) The Last Tournanieni, 1871 ; (10) Guinevere, 1859. 

III. The Passing of Arthur, 1869. (But mostly made up of 
Morte d' Arthur, 1842.) 

The Epic, as finally completed, also included a Dedication to Prince 
Albert and an Epilogue to the Queen. The student will hardly find 
poetry more interesting — nay, fascinating — than that presented in 
these twelve idylls. In this book we are forced to confine ourselves to 
three, Gareth and Lynette and Lancelot and Elaine, respectively the 
first and the sixth of the "Round Table," and The Passing of Arthur, 
the last of the series. All twelve may be found, however, in editions 
of Tennyson's poems ; and the student will find that at least the Mar- 
riage of Geraint, the Geraint and Enid, The Last Tournament, and 
Guinevere will equal in interest any of the three here given. 

GARETH AND LYNETTE 

The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent, 

And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring 

Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted pine 

Lost footing, fell, and so was whirl'd away. 

" How he went down," said Gareth, " as a false knight 5 

Or evil king before my lance, if lance 

Were mine to use — O senseless cataract, 

Bearing all down in thy precipitancy — 

And yet thou art but swollen with cold snows 

And mine is living blood : thou dost His will, ' 10 

The Maker's, and not knowest, and I that know, 



348 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Have strength and wit, in my good mother's hall 

Linger with vacillating obedience, 

Prison'd, and kept and coax'd and whistled to — 

Since the good mother holds me still a child ! 15 

Good mother is bad mother unto me ! 

A worse were better ; yet no worse would I. 

Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force 

To weary her ears with one continuous prayer, 

Until she let me fly discaged to sweep 20 

In ever-highering eagle-circles up 

To the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoop 

Down upon all things base, and dash them dead, 

A knight of Arthur, working out his will. 

To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he came 25 

With Modred hither in the summer-time, 

Ask'd me to tilt with him, the proven knight. 

Modred for want of worthier was the judge. 

Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said, 

' Thou hast half prevail'd against me,' said so — he — z'=> 

Tho' Modred biting his thin lips was mute, 

For he is alway sullen : what care I ? " 

And Gareth went, and hovering round her chair 
Ask'd, " Mother, tho' ye count me still the child, 
Sweet mother, do ye love the child ? " She laugh'd, 35 
" Thou art but a wild-goose to question it." 
" Then, mother, an ye love the child," he said, 
" Being a goose and rather tame than wild. 
Hear the child's story." " Yea, my well-beloved. 
An 'twere but of the goose and golden eggs." 40 

And Gareth answer'd her with kindling eyes : 
" Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mine 
Was finer gold than any goose can lay ; 
For this an eagle, a royal eagle, laid 

Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm 45 

As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours. 
And there was ever haunting round the palm 



GAKETH AND LYNETTE 349 

A lusty youth, but poor, who often saw 

The splendour sparkling from aloft, and thought 

' An I could climb and lay my hand upon it, 50 

Then were I wealthier than a leash of kings.' 

But ever when he reach'd a hand to climb, 

One that had loved him from his childhood caught 

And stay'd him, ' Climb not lest thou break thy neck, 

I charge thee by my love,' and so the boy, 55 

Sweet mother, neither clomb nor brake his neck. 

But brake his very heart in pining for it, 

And past away." 

To whom the mother said, 
" True love, sweet son, had risk'd himself and climb'd. 
And handed down the golden treasure to him." 60 

And Gareth answer'd her with kindling eyes : 
" Gold ? said I gold ? — ay then, why he, or she. 
Or whosoe'er it was, or half the world 
Had ventured — had the thing I spake of been 
Mere gold — but this was all of that true steel 65 

Whereof they forged the brand Excalibur, 
And lightnings play'd about it in the storm. 
And all the little fowl were flurried at it, 
And there were cries and clashings in the nest, 
That sent him from his senses : let me go." 70 

Then Bellicent bemoan'd herself and said : 
" Hast thou no pity upon my loneliness ? 
Lo, where thy father Lot beside the hearth 
Lies like a log, and all but smoulder'd out ! 
For ever since when traitor to the King 75 

He fought against him in the barons' war, 
And Arthur gave him back his territory. 
His age hath slowly droopt, and now lies there 
A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburiable. 
No more ; nor sees, nor hears, nor speaks, nor knows. 80 
And both thy brethren are in Arthur's hall, 



;50 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Albeit neither loved with that full love 

I feel for thee, nor worthy such a love. 

Stay therefore thou ; red berries charm the bird, 

And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the wars, 85 

Who never knewest finger-ache, nor pang 

Of wrench'd or broken limb — an often chance 

In those brain-stunning shocks, and tourney-falls, 

Frights to my heart ; but stay : follow the deer 

By these tall firs and our fast-falling burns ; 90 

So make thy manhood mightier day by day ; 

Sweet is the chase : and I will seek thee out 

Some comfortable bride and fair, to grace 

Thy climbing life, and cherish my prone year, 

Till falling into Lot's forgetfulness 95 

I know not thee, myself, nor anything. 

Stay, my best son ! ye are yet more boy than man." 

Then Gareth : "An ye hold me yet for child. 
Hear yet once more the story of the child. 
For, mother, there was once a king, like ours. 100 

The prince, his heir, when tall and marriageable, 
Ask'd for a bride ; and thereupon the king 
Set two before him. One was fair, strong, arm'd — 
But to be won by force — and many men 
Desired her ; one, good lack, no man desired. 105 

And these were the conditions of the king : 
That save he won the first by force, he needs 
Must wed that other, whom no man desired, 
A red-faced bride who knew herself so vile 
That evermore she long'd to hide herself, no 

Nor fronted man or woman, eye to eye — 
Yea — some she cleaved to, but they died of her. 
And one — they call'd her Fame ; and one, — O mother, 
How can ye keep me tether'd to you? — Shame. 
Man am I grown, a man's work must I do. 115 

Follow the deer ? follow the Christ, the King, 
Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King — 
Else, wherefore born ? " 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 35 I 

To whom the mother said : 
" Sweet son, for there be many who deem him not, 
Or will not deem him, wholly proven King — 120 

Albeit in mine own heart I knew him King 
When I was frequent with him in my youth, 
And heard him kingly speak, and doubted him 
No more than he, himself ; but felt him mine," 
Of closest kin to me : yet — wilt thou leave 125 

Thine easeful biding here, and risk thine all. 
Life, limbs, for one that is not proven King ? 
Stay, till the cloud that settles round his birth 
Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet son," 

And Gareth answer'd quickly : " Not an hour, 130 

So that ye yield me — I will walk thro' fire, 
Mother, to gain it — your full leave to go. 
Not proven, who swept the dust of ruin'd Rome 
From off the threshold of the realm, and crush 'd 
The Idolaters, and made the people free ? 135 

Who should be King save him who makes us free ? " 

So when the Queen, who long had sought in vain 
To break him from the intent to which he grew% 
Found her son's will unwaveringly one, 
She answer'd craftily : " Will ye walk thro' fire ? 140 

Who walks thro' fire will hardly heed the smoke. 
Ay, go then, an ye must: only one proof, 
Before thou ask the King to make thee knight. 
Of thine obedience and thy love to me. 
Thy mother, — I demand." 

And Gareth cried : 145 

" A hard one, or a hundred, so I go. 
Nay — quick ! the proof to prove me to the quick ! " 

But slowly spake the mother looking at him : 
" Prince, thou shalt go disguised to Arthur's hall. 
And hire thyself to serve for meats and drinks 150 



352 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Among the scullions and the kitchen-knaves, 
And those that hand the dish across the bar. 
Nor shalt thou tell thy name to any one. 
And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth and a day." 

For so the Queen believed that when her son 155 

Beheld his only way to glory lead 
Low down thro' villain kitchen-vassalage, 
Her own true Gareth was too princely-proud 
To pass thereby ; so should he rest with her. 
Closed in her castle from the sound of arms. 160 

Silent awhile was Gareth, then replied : 
"The thrall in person may be free in soul, 
And I shall see the jousts. Thy son am I, 
And, since thou art my mother, must obey. 
I therefore yield me freely to thy will ; 165 

For hence will I, disguised, and hire myself 
To serve with scullions and with kitchen-knaves ; 
Nor tell my name to any — no, not the King." 

Gareth awhile linger'd. The mother's eye 
Full of the wistful fear that he would go, 170 

And turning toward him wheresoe'er he turn'd, 
Perplext his outward purpose, till an hour. 
When, waken 'd by the wind which with full voice 
Swept bellowing thro' the darkness on to dawn, 
He rose, and out of slumber calling two 175 

That still had tended on him from his birth. 
Before the wakeful mother heard him, went. 

The three were clad like tillers of the soil. 
Southward they set their faces. The birds made 
Melody on branch and melody in mid air. 180 

The damp hill-slopes were quicken'd into green, 
And the live green had kindled into flowers. 
For it was past the time of Easter-day. 



CARET H AND LYNETTE 353 

So, when their feet were planted on the plain 
That broaden'd toward the base of Camelot, 185 

Far off they saw the silver-misty morn 
Rolling her smoke about the royal mount, 
That rose between the forest and the field. 
At times the summit of the high city flash 'd ; 
At times the spires and turrets half-way down iqo 

Prick'd thro' the mist ; at times the great gate shone 
Only, that open'd on the field below : 
Anon, the whole fair city had disappear'd. 

Then those who went with Gareth were amazed, 
One crying, " Let us go no further, lord : 195 

Here is a city of enchanters, built 
By fairy kings." The second echo'd him, 
" Lord, we have heard from our wise man at home 
To northward, that this king is not the King, 
But only changeling out of Fairyland, 200 

Who drave the heathen hence by sorcery 
And Merlin's glamour." Then the first again, 
" Lord, there is no such city anywhere, 
But all a vision." 

Gareth answer'd them 
With laughter, swearing he had glamour enow 205 

In his own blood, his princedom, youth, and hopes. 
To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian sea ; 
So push'd them all unwilling toward the gate. 
And there was no gate like it under heaven. 
For barefoot on the keystone, which was lined 210 

And rippled like an ever-fleeting wave. 
The Lady of the Lake stood : all her dress 
Wept from her sides as water flowing away ; 
But like the cross her great and goodly arms 
Stretch'd under all the cornice and upheld : 215 

And drops of water fell from either hand ; 
And down from one a sword was hung, from one 
A censer, either worn with wind and storm ; 

2 A 



354 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

And o'er her breast floated the sacred fish ; 

And in the space to left of her, and right, 220 

Were Arthur's wars in weird devices done, 

New things and old co-twisted, as if Time 

Were nothing, so inveterately that men 

Were giddy gazing there ; and over all 

High on the top were those three Queens, the friends 225 

Of Arthur, who should help him at his need. 

Then those with Gareth for so long a space 
Stared at the figures, that at last it seem'd 
The dragon-boughts and elvish eniblemings 
Began to move, seethe, twine, and curl : they call'd 230 
To Gareth, " Lord, the gateway is alive." 

And Gareth likewise on them fixt his eyes 
So long, that even to him they seem'd to move. 
Out of the city a blast of music peal'd. 
Back from the gate started the three, to whom 235 

From out thereunder came an ancient man, 
Long-bearded, saying, " Who be ye, my sons ? " 

Then Gareth : " We be tillers of the soil, 
Who leaving share in furrow come to see 
The glories of our King: but these, my men, — 240 

Your city moved so weirdly in the mist — 
Doubt if the King be king at all, or come 
From Fairyland ; and whether this be built 
By magic, and by fairy kings and queens ; 
Or whether there be any city at all, 245 

Or all a vision : and this music now 
Hath scared them both, but tell thou these the truth." 

Then that old Seer made answer, playing on him 
And saying : " Son, I have seen the good ship sail 
Keel upward and mast downward, in the heavens, 250 
And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air: 
And here is truth ; but an it please thee not, 
Take thou the truth as thou hast told it me. 



CARET H AND LYNETTE 355 

For truly, as thou sayest, a fairy king 

And fairy queens have built the city, son ; 255 

They came from out a sacred mountain-cleft 

Toward the sunrise, each with harp in hand, 

And built it to the music of their harps. 

And, as thou sayest, it is enchanted, son. 

For there is nothing in it as it seems 260 

Saving the King ; tho' some there be that hold 

The King a shadow, and the city real ; 

Yet take thou heed of him, for, so thou pass 

Beneath this archway, then wilt thou become 

A thrall to his enchantments, for the King 265 

Will bind thee by such vows as is a shame 

A. man should not be bound by, yet the which 

No man can keep ; but, so thou dread to swear. 

Pass not beneath this gateway, but abide 

Without, among the cattle of the field. 270 

For an ye heard a music, like enow 

They are building still, seeing the city is built 

To music, therefore never built at all. 

And therefore built for ever," 

Gareth spake 
Anger'd : "Old master, reverence thine own beard 275 
That looks as white as utter truth, and seems 
Wellnigh as long as thou art statured tall ! 
Why mockest thou the stranger that hath been 
To thee fair-spoken ? " 

But the Seer replied : 
" Know ye not then the Riddling of the Bards ? 2S0 

' Confusion, and illusion, and relation, 
Elusion, and occasion, and evasion ' ? 
I mock thee not but as thou mockest me, 
And all that see thee, for thou art not who 
Thou seemest, but I know thee who thou art. 2S5 

And now thou goest up to mock the King, 
Who cannot brook the shadow of any lie." 



356 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Unmockingly the mocker ending here, 
Turn'd to the right, and past along the plain ; 
Whom Gareth looking after said : " My men, 290 

Our one white lie sits like a little ghost 
Here on the threshold of our enterprise. 
Let love be blamed for it, not she, nor I : 
Well, we will make amends." 

With all good cheer 
He spake and laugh 'd, then enter 'd with his twain 295 
Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces 
And stately, rich in emblem and the work 
Of ancient kings who did their days in stone ; 
Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at Arthur's court, 
Knowing all arts, had touch'd, and everywhere, 300 

At Arthur's ordinance, tipt with lessening peak 
And pinnacle, and had made it spire to heaven. 
And ever and anon a knight would pass 
Outward, or inward to the hall : his arms 
Clash'd ; and the sound was good to Gareth's ear. 305 
And out of bower and casement shyly glanced 
Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars of love ; 
And all about a healthful people stept 
As in the presence of a gracious king. 

Then into hall Gareth ascending heard 310 

A voice, the voice of Arthur, and beheld 
Far over heads in that long-vaulted hall 
The splendour of the presence of the King 
Throned, and delivering doom — and look'd no more — 
But felt his young heart hammering in his ears, 315 

And thought, " For this half-shadow of a lie 
The truthful King will doom me when I speak." 
Yet pressing on, tho' all in fear to find 
Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor one 
Nor other, but in all the listening eyes 320 

Of those tall knights that ranged about the throne. 
Clear honour, shining like the dewy star 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 357 

Of dawn, and faith in their great King, with pure 

Affection, and the light of victory. 

And glory gain'd, and evermore to gain, 325 

Then came a widow crying to the King : 
" A boon. Sir King ! Thy father, Uther, reft 
From my dead lord a field with violence ; 
For howsoe'er at first he proffer'd gold, 
Yet,' for the field was pleasant in our eyes, 330 

We yielded not ; and then he reft us of it 
Perforce, and left us neither gold nor field." 

Said Arthur, " Whether would ye ? gold or field ? " 
To whom the woman weeping, " Nay, my lord. 
The field was pleasant in my husband's eye." 335 

And Arthur : " Have thy pleasant field again. 
And thrice the gold for Uther's use thereof, 
According to the years. No boon is here, 
But justice, so thy say be proven true. 
Accursed, who from the wrongs his father did 340 

Would shape himself a right ! " 

And while she past, 
Came yet another widow crying to him : 
"A boon, Sir King! Thine enemy. King, am I. 
With thine own hand thou slewest my dear lord, 
A knight of Uther in the barons' war, 345 

When Lot and many another rose and fought 
Against thee, saying thou wert basely born. 
I held with these, and loathe to ask thee aught. 
Yet lo ! my husband's brother had my son 
Thrall'd in his castle, and hath starved him dead, 350 

And standeth seized of that inheritance 
Which thou that slewest the sire hast left the son. 
So, tho' I scarce can ask it thee for hate, 
Grant me some knight to do the battle for me, 
Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for my son." 355 



358 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Then strode a good knight forward, cr)'ing to him, 
"A boon, Sir King! I am her kinsman, I. 
Give me to right her wrong, and slay the man." 

Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, and cried, 
"A boon, Sir King! even that thou grant her none, 360 
This railer, that hath mock'd thee in full hall — 
None ; or the wholesome boon of gyve and gag." 

But Arthur : " We sit King, to help the wrong'd 
Thro' all our realm. The woman loves her lord. 
Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves and hates ! 365 

The kings of old had doom'd thee to the flames ; 
Aurelius Emrys would have scourged thee dead. 
And Uther slit thy tongue : but get thee hence — 
Lest that rough humour of the kings of old 
Return upon me ! Thou that art her kin, 370 

Go likewise ; lay him low and slay him not. 
But bring him here, that I may judge the right. 
According to the justice of the King: 
Then, be he guilty, by that deathless King 
Who lived and died for men, the man shall die." 375 

Then came in hall the messenger of Mark, 
A name of evil savour in the land, 
The Cornish king. In either hand he bore 
What dazzled all, and shone far-off as shines 
A field of charlock in the sudden sun 3S0 

Between two showers, a cloth of palest gold. 
Which down he laid before the throne, and knelt. 
Delivering that his lord, the vassal king. 
Was ev'n upon his way to Camelot ; 

For having heard that Arthur of his grace 3S5 

Had made his goodly cousin, Tristram, knight, 
And, for himself was of the greater state. 
Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord 
Would yield him this large honour all the more ; 
So pray'd him well to accept this cloth of gold, 390 

In token of true heart and fealty. 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 359 

Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, to rend 
In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth. 
An oak-tree smoulder'd there. " The goodly knight ! 
What ! shall the shield of Mark stand among these ? " 395 
For, midway down the side of that long hall, 
A stately pile, — whereof along the front, 
Some blazon'd, some but carven, and some blank, 
There ran a treble range of stony shields, — 
Rose, and high-arching overbrow'd the hearth. 400 

And under every shield a knight was named. 
For this was Arthur's custom in his hall : 
When some good knight had done one noble deed, 
His arms were carven only ; but if twain. 
His arms were blazon'd also ; but if none, 405 

The shield was blank and bare, without a sign 
Saving the name beneath : and Gareth saw 
The shield of Gawain blazon'd rich and bright, 
And Modred's blank as death ; and Arthur cried 
To rend the cloth and cast it on the hearth. 410 

" More like are we to reave him of his crown 
Than make him knight because men call him king. 
The kings we found, ye know we stay'd their hands 
From war among themselves, but left them kings ; 
Of whom were any bounteous, merciful, 415 

Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, them we enroll'd 
Among us, and they sit within our hall. 
But Mark hath tarnish'd the great name of king, 
As Mark would sully the low state of churl ; 
And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of gold, 420 

Return, and meet, and hold him from our eyes, 
Lest we should lap him up in cloth of lead. 
Silenced for ever — craven — a man of plots. 
Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside ambushings — 
No fault of thine : let Kay the seneschal 425 

Look to thy wants, and send thee satisfied — 
Accursed, who strikes nor lets the hand be seen ! " 



360 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

And many another suppliant crying caiiie 
With noise of ravage wrought by beast and man, 
And evermore a knight would ride away. 430 

Last, Gareth leaning both hands heavily 
Down on the shoulders of the twain, his men, 
Approach 'd between them toward the King, and ask'd, 
" A boon. Sir King," — his voice was all ashamed, — 
" For see ye not how weak and hunger-worn 435 

I seem — leaning on these ? grant me to serve 
For meat and drink among thy kitchen-knaves 
A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my name. 
Hereafter I will fight." 

To him the King : 
" A goodly youth and worth a goodlier boon ! 440 

But so thou wilt no goodlier, then must Kay, 
The master of the meats and drinks, be thine." 

He rose and past ; then Kay, a man of mien 
Wan-sallow as the plant that feels itself 
Root-bitten by white lichen : 

" Lo ye now ! 445 

This fellow hath broken from some Abbey, where, 
God wot, he had not beef and brewis enow. 
However that might chance ! but an he work, 
Like any pigeon will I cram his crop. 
And sleeker shall he shine than any hog." 450 

Then Lancelot standing near : " Sir Seneschal, 
Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, and all the hounds ; 
A horse thou knowest, a man thou dost not know : 
Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and fine. 
High nose, a nostril large and fine, and hands, 455 

Large, fair, and fine ! — Some young lad's mystery — 
But, or from sheepcot or king's hall, the boy 
Is noble-natured. Treat him with all grace. 
Lest he should come to shame thy judging of him." 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 36 1 

Then Kay, " What murmurest thou of mystery ? 460 
Think ye this fellow will poison the King's dish ? 
Nay, for he spake too fool-like : mystery ! 
Tut, an the lad were noble, he had ask'd 
For horse and armour : fair and fine, forsooth ! 
Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands ? but see thou to it 465 

That thine own fineness, Lancelot, some fine day 
Undo thee not — and leave my man to me." 

So Gareth all for glory underwent 
The sooty yoke of kitchen-vassalage ; 
Ate with young lads his portion by the door, 470 

And couch'd at night with grimy kitchen-knaves. 
And Lancelot ever spake him pleasantly. 
But Kay the seneschal, who loved him not. 
Would hustle and harry him, and labour him 
Beyond his comrade of the hearth, and set 475 

To turn the broach, draw water, or hew wood. 
Or grosser tasks ; and Gareth bow'd himself 
With all obedience to the King, and wrought 
All kind of service with a noble ease 
That graced the lowliest act in doing it. 480 

And when the thralls had talk among themselves. 
And one would praise the love that linkt the King 
And Lancelot — how the King had saved his life 
In battle twice, and Lancelot once the King's — 
For Lancelot was the first in tournament, 4S5 

But Arthur mightiest on the battle-field — 
Gareth was glad. Or if some other told 
How once the wandering forester at dawn. 
Far over the blue tarns and hazy seas. 
On Caer-Eryri's highest found the King, 490 

A naked babe, of whom the Prophet spake, 
" He passes to the Isle Avilion, 
He passes and is heal'd and cannot die" — 
Gareth was glad. But if their talk were foul. 
Then would he whistle rapid as any lark, 495 

Or carol some old roundelay, and so loud 



562 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

That first they mock'd, but, after, reverenced him. 
Or Gareth. telling some prodigious tale 
Of knights who sliced a red life-bubbling way 
Thro' twenty folds of twisted dragon, held 500 

All in a gap-mouth'd circle his good mates 
Lying or sitting round him, idle hands, 
Charm'd ; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, would come 
Blustering upon them, like a sudden wind 
Among dead leaves, and drive them all apart. 505 

Or when the thralls had sport among themselves, 
So there were any trial of mastery. 
He, by two yards in casting bar or stone. 
Was counted best ; and if there chanced a joust, 
So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to go, 510 

Would hurry thither, and when he saw the knights 
Clash like the coming and retiring wave, 
■ And the spear spring, and good horse reel, the boy 
Was half beyond himself for ecstasy. 

So for a month he wrought among the thralls ; 515 

But in the weeks that follow'd, the good Queen, 
Repentant of the word she made him swear. 
And saddening in her childless castle, sent, 
Between the in-crescent and de-crescent moon, 
Arms for her son. and loosed him from his vow. 520 

This, Gareth hearing from a squire of Lot 
With whom he used to play at tourney once, 
When both were children, and in lonely haunts 
Would scratch a ragged oval on the sand. 
And each at either dash from either end — 525 

Shame never made girl redder than Gareth joy. 
He laugh 'd ; he sprang. "Out of the smoke, at once 
I leap from Satan's foot to Peter's knee — 
These news be mine, none other's — nay, the King's — 
Descend into the city : " whereon he sought 530 

The King alone, and found, and told him all. 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 363 

" I have stagger 'd thy strong Gawain in a tilt 
For pastime ; yea, he said it : joust can I. 
Make me thy knight — in secret ! let my name 
Be hidden, and give me the first quest, I spring 535 

Like flame from ashes." 

Here the King's calm eye 
Fell on, and check'd, and made him flush, and bow 
Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answer'd him : 
" Son, the good mother let me know thee here, 
And sent her wish that I would yield thee thine. 540 

Make thee my knight? my knights are sworn to vows 
Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness. 
And, loving, utter faithfulness in love, 
And uttermost obedience to the King." 

Then Gareth, lightly springing from his knees : 545 

" My King, for hardihood I can promise thee. 
For uttermost obedience make demand 
Of whom ye gave me to, the Seneschal, 
No mellow master of the meats and drinks ! 
And as for love, God wot, I love not yet, 550 

But love I shall, God willing." 

And the King •. 
" Make thee my knight in secret ? yea, but he, 
Our noblest brother, and our truest man. 
And one with me in all, he needs must know." 

" Let Lancelot know, my King, let Lancelot know, 555 
Thy noblest and thy truest ! " 

And the King : 
" But wherefore would ye men should wonder at you ? 
Nay, rather for the sake of me, their King, 
And the deed's sake my knighthood do the deed. 
Than to be noised of." 

Merrily Gareth ask'd : 560 

" Have I not earn'd my cake in baking of it ? 



364 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Let be my name until I make my name ! 

My deeds will speak : it is but for a day." 

So with a kindly hand on Gareth's arm 

Smiled the great King, and half-unwillingly 565 

Loving his lusty youthhood yielded to him. 

Then, after summoning Lancelot privily : 

" I have given him the first quest : he is not proven. 

Look therefore, when he calls for this in hall, 

Thou get to horse and follow him far away. 570 

Cover the lions on thy shield, and see, 

Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta'en nor slain." 

Then that same day there past into the hall 
A damsel of high lineage, and a brow 

May-blossom, and a cheek of apple-blossom, 575 

Hawk-eyes ; and lightly was her slender nose 
Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower : 
She into hall past with her page and cried : 

" O King, for thou hast driven the foe without. 
See to the foe within ! bridge, ford, beset 580 

By bandits, every one that owns a tower 
The lord for half a league. Why sit ye there ? 
Rest would I not, Sir King, an I were king. 
Till ev'n the lonest hold were all as free 
From cursed bloodshed as thine altar-cloth 585 

From that best blood it is a sin to spill." 

" Comfort thyself," said Arthur, " I nor mine 
Rest : so my knighthood keep the vows they swore, 
The wastest moorland of our realm shall be 
Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall. 590 

What is thy name ? thy need ? " 

" My name ? " she said — 
" Lynette, my name ; noble ; my need, a knight 
To combat for my sister, Lyonors, 
A lady of high lineage, of great lands, 



GARETH AiXD LYNETTE 365 

And comely, yea, and comelier than myself. 595 

She lives in Castle Perilous: a river 

Runs in three loops about her living-place ; 

And o'er it are three passings, and three knights 

Defend the passings, brethren, and a fourth, 

And of that four the mightiest, holds her stay'd 600 

In her own castle, and so besieges her 

To break her will, and make her wed with him ; 

And but delays his purport till thou send 

To do the battle with him thy chief man 

Sir Lancelot, whom he trusts to overthrow ; 605 

Then wed, with glory : but she will not wed 

Save whom she loveth, or a holy life. 

Now therefore have I come for Lancelot." 

Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth ask'd : 
" Damsel, ye know this Order lives to crush 610 

All wrongers of the realm. But say, these four, 
Who be they ? What the fashion of the men ? " 

" They be of foolish fashion, O Sir King, 
The fashion of that old knight-errantry 
Who ride abroad, and do but what they will ; 615 

Courteous or bestial from the moment, such 
As have nor law nor king ; and three of these 
Proud in their fantasy call themselves the Day, 
Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and Evening-Star, 
Being strong fools ; and never a whit more wise 620 

The fourth, who alway rideth arm'd in black, 
A huge man-beast of boundless savagery. 
He names himself the Night and oftener Death, 
And wears a helmet mounted with a skull, 
And bears a skeleton figured on his arms, 625 

To show that who may slay or scape the three, 
Slain by himself, shall enter endless night. 
And all these four be fools, but mighty men, 
And therefore am I come for Lancelot." 



366 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Hereat Sir Gareth call'd from where he rose, 630 

A head with kindling eyes above the throng, 
" A boon, Sir King — this quest ! " then — for he mark'd 
Kay near him groaning like a wounded bull — 
" Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen-knave am I, 
And mighty thro' thy meats and drinks am I, 635 

And I can topple over a hundred such. 
Thy promise. King," and Arthur glancing at him, 
Brought down a momentary brow. " Rough, sudden. 
And pardonable, worthy to be knight — 
Go therefore," and all hearers were amazed. 640 

But on the damsel's forehead shame, pride, wrath 
Slew the May-white : she lifted either arm, 
" Fie on thee, KingS I ask'd for thy chief knight. 
And thou hast given me but a kitchen-knave." 
Then ere a man in hall could stay her, turn'd, 645 

Fled down the lane of access to the King, 
Took horse, descended the slope street, and past 
The weird white gate, and paused without, beside 
The field of tourney, murmuring " kitchen-knave ! " 

Now two great entries open'd from the hall, 650 

At one end one that gave upon a range 
Of level pavement where the King would pace 
At sunrise, gazing over plain and wood ; 
And down from this a lordly stairway sloped 
Till lost in blowing trees and tops of towers ; 655 

And out by this main doorway past the King. 
But one was counter to the hearth, and rose 
High that the highest-crested helm could ride 
Therethro' nor graze ; and by this entry fled 
The damsel in her wrath, and on to this 660 

Sir Gareth strode, and saw without the door 
King Arthur's gift, the worth of half a town, 
A war-horse of the best, and near it stood 
The two that out of north had follow'd him : 
This bare a maiden shield, a casque ; that held 665 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 367 

The horse, the spear ; whereat Sir Gareth loosed 

A cloak that dropt from collar-bone to heel, 

A cloth of roughest web, and cast it down. 

And from it, like a fuel-smother'd fire 

That lookt half-dead, brake bright, and flash'd as those 670 

Dull-coated things, that making slide apart 

Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath there burns 

A jew^eird harness, ere they pass and fly. 

So Gareth ere he parted flash'd in arms. 

Then as he donn'd the helm, and took the shield 675 

And mounted horse and graspt a spear, of grain 

Storm-strengthen'd on a windy site, and tipt 

With trenchant steel, around him slowly prest 

The people, while from out of kitchen came 

The thralls in throng, and seeing who had work'd 6S0 

Lustier than any, and whom they could but love, 

Mounted in arms, threw up their caps and cried, 

" God bless the King, and all his fellowship ! " 

And on thro' lanes of shouting Gareth rode 

Down the slope street, and past without the gate. 6S5 

So Gareth past with joy ; but as the cur 
Pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere his cause 
Be cool'd by fighting, follows, being named, 
His owner, but remembers all, and growls 
Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the door 690 

Mutter'd in scorn of Gareth whom he used 
To harry and hustle. 

" Bound upon a quest 
With horse and arms — the King hath past his time — 
My scullion knave ! Thralls, to your work again, 
For an your fire be low ye kindle mine ! 695 

Will there be dawn in West and eve in East ? 
Begone ! — my knave ! — belike and like enow 
Some old head-blow not heeded in his youth 
So shook his wits they wander in his prime — 
Crazed ! How the villain lifted up his voice, 700 



368 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen-knave ! 

Tut, he was tame and meek enow with me, 

Till peacock'd up with Lancelot's noticing. 

Well — I will after my loud knave, and learn 

Whether he know me for his master yet. 705 

Out of the smoke he came, and so my lance 

Hold, by God's grace, he shall into the mire — 

Thence, if the King awaken from his craze, 

Into the smoke again." 

But Lancelot said : 
" Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against the King, 710 

For that did never he whereon ye rail, 
But ever meekly served the King in thee ? 
Abide : take counsel ; for this lad is great 
And lusty, and knowing both of lance and sword." 
"Tut, tell not me," said Kay, "ye are overfine 715 

To mar stout knaves with foolish courtesies: " 
Then mounted, on thro' silent faces rode 
Down the slope city, and out beyond the gate. 

But by the field of tourney lingering yet 
Mutter'd the damsel : " Wherefore did the King 720 

Scorn me ? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, at least 
He might have yielded to me one of those 
Who tilt for lady's love and glory here. 
Rather than — O sweet heaven ! O fie upon him ! — 
His kitchen-knave." 

To whom Sir Gareth drew — 725 

And there were none but few goodlier than he — 
Shining in arms, " Damsel, the quest is mine. 
Lead, and I follow." She thereat, as one 
That smells a foul-flesh'd agaric in the holt, 
And deems it carrion of some woodland thing, 730 

Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender nose 
With petulant thumb and finger, shrilling, " Hence ! 
Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen-grease. 
And look who comes behind ; " for there was Kay. 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 369 

" Knowest thou not me ? thy master ? I am Kay. 735 

We lack thee by the hearth." 

And Gareth to him, 
" Master no more ! too well I know thee, ay — 
The most ungentle knight in Arthur's hall." 
" Have at thee then," said Kay : they shock'd, and Kay 
Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again, 740 

"Lead, and I follow," and fast aw^ay she fled. 

But after sod and shingle ceased to fly 
Behind her, and the heart of her good horse 
Was nigh to burst with violence of the beat. 
Perforce she stay'd, and overtaken spoke : 745 

" What doest thou, scullion, in my fellowship? 
Deem'st thou that I accept thee aught the more 
Or love thee better, that by some device 
Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness. 
Thou hast overthrown and slain thy master — thou ! — 750 
Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon ! — to me 
Thou smellest all of kitchen as before." 

"Damsel," Sir Gareth answer'd gently, "say 
Whate'er ye will, but whatsoe'er ye say, 
I leave not till I finish this fair quest, 755 

Or die therefor." 

" Ay, wilt thou finish it ? 
Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks ! 
The listening rogue hath caught the manner of it. 
But, knave, anon thou shalt be met wath, knave. 
And then by such a one that thou for all 760 

The kitchen brewis that was ever supt 
Shalt not once dare to look him in the face." 

" I shall assay," said Gareth with a smile 
That madden'd her, and away she flash'd again 
Down the long avenues of a boundless wood, 765 

And Gareth following was again beknaved : 



370 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

" Sir Kitchen-knave, I have miss'd the only way 
Where Arthur's men are set along the wood ; 
The wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves : 
If both be slain, I am rid of thee ; but yet, 770 

Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine ? 
Fight, an thou canst : I have miss'd the only way." 

So till the dusk that follow'd even-song 
Rode on the two, reviler and reviled ; 

Then after one long slope was mounted, saw, 775 

Bowl-shaped, thro' tops of many thousand pines 
A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink 
To westward — in the deeps whereof a mere. 
Round as the red eye of an Eagle-owl, 

Under the half-dead sunset glared ; and shouts 7S0 

Ascended, and there brake a serving man 
Flying from out of the black wood, and crying, 
" They have bound my lord to cast him in the mere." 
Then Gareth, " Bound am I to right the wrong'd. 
But straitlier bound am I to bide with thee." 785 

And when the damsel spake contemptuously, 
" Lead, and I follow," Gareth cried again, 
" Follow, I lead ! " so down among the pines 
He plunged ; and there, black-shadow'd nigh the mere. 
And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and reed, 790 

Saw six tall men haling a seventh along, 
A stone about his neck to drown him in it. 
Three with good blows he quieted, but three 
Fled thro' the pines ; and Gareth loosed the stone 
From ofT his neck, then in the mere beside 795 

Tumbled it ; oilily bubbled up the mere. 
Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on free feet 
Set him, a stalwart baron, Arthur's friend. 

" Well that ye came, or else these caitiff rogues 
Had wreak'd themselves on me ; good cause is theirs 800 
To hate me, for my wont hath ever been 
To catch my thief, and then like vermin here 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 7,ji 

Drown him, and with a stone about his neck; 

And under this wan water many of them 

Lie rotting, but at night let go the stone, 805 

And rise, and flickering in a grimly light 

Dance on the mere. Good now, ye have saved a life 

Worth somewhat as the cleanser of this wood. 

And fain would I reward thee worshipfully. 

What guerdon will ye ? " 

Gareth sharply spake : 810 

" None ! for the deed's sake have I done the deed, 
In uttermost obedience to the King. 
But wilt thou yield this damsel harbourage ? ' 

Whereat the baron saying, " I well believe 
You be of Arthur's Table," a light laugh 815 

Broke from Lynette : " Ay, truly of a truth, 
And in a sort, being Arthur's kitchen-knave ! — 
But deem not I accept thee aught the more. 
Scullion, for running sharply with thy spit 
Down on a rout of craven foresters. 820 

A thresher with his flail had scatter'd them. 
Nay — for thou smellest of the kitchen still. 
But an this lord will yield us harbourage, 
Well." 

So she spake. A league beyond the wood. 
All in a full-fair manor and a rich, 825 

His towers, where that day a feast had been 
Held in high hall, and many a viand left, 
And many a costly cate, received the three. 
And there they placed a peacock in his pride 
Before the damsel, and the baron set 830 

Gareth beside her, but at once she rose. 

" Meseems, that here is much discourtesy, 
Setting this knave. Lord Baron, at my side. 
Hear me — this morn I stood in Arthur's hall. 
And pray'd the King would grant me Lancelot S35 



3/2 IDYLLS OF THE KLVG 

To fight the brotherhood of Day and Night — 

The last a monster unsubduable 

Of any save of him for whom I call'd — 

Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen-knave, 

' The quest is mine ; thy kitchen-knave am I, 840 

And mighty thro' thy meats and drinks am I.' 

Then Arthur all at once gone mad replies, 

'Go therefore,' and so gives the quest to him — 

Him — here — a villain fitter to stick swine 

Than ride abroad redressing women's wrong, 845 

Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman." 

Then half-ashamed and part-amazed, the lord 
Now look'd at one and now at other, left 
The damsel by the peacock in his pride, 
And, seating Gareth at another board, 850 

Sat down beside him, ate and then began : 

" Friend, whether thou be kitchen-knave, or not, 
Or whether it be the maiden's fantasy, 
And whether she be mad, or else the King, 
Or both or neither, or thyself be mad, 855 

I ask not : but thou strikest a strong stroke, 
For strong thou art and goodly therewithal 
And saver of my life ; and therefore now, 
For here be mighty men to joust with, weigh 
Whether thou wilt not with thy damsel back 860 

To crave again Sir Lancelot of the King. 
Thy pardon ; I but speak for thine avail, 
The saver of my life." 

And Gareth said, 
" Full pardon, but I follow up the quest. 
Despite of Day and Night and Death and Hell." 865 

So when, next morn, the lord whose life he saved 
Had, some brief space, convey'd them on their way 
And left them with God-speed, Sir Gareth spake, 
"Lead, and I follow." Haughtily she replied: 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 373 

" I fly no more : I allow thee for an hour. 870 

Lion and stoat have isled together, knave, 
In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, methinks 
Some ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt thou, fool ? 
For hard by here is one will overthrow 
And slay thee ; then will I to court again, 875 

And shame the King for only yielding me 
My champion from the ashes of his hearth." 

To whom Sir Gareth answer'd courteously : 
" Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed. 
Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt find 880 

My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay 
Among the ashes and wedded the King's son." 

Then to the shore of one of those long loops 
Wherethro' the serpent river coil'd, they came. 
Rough-thicketed were the banks and steep ; the stream 885 
Full, narrow ; this a bridge of single arc 
Took at a leap ; and on the further side 
Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold 
In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily in hue, 
Save that the dome was purple, and above, 890 

Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering. 
And therebefore the lawless warrior paced 
Unarm'd, and calling, " Damsel, is this he, 
The champion thou hast brought from Arthur's hall ? 
For whom we let thee pass." " Nay, nay," she said, 895 
" Sir Morning-Star. The King in utter scorn 
Of thee and thy much folly hath sent thee here 
His kitchen-knave : and look thou to thyself : 
See that he fall not on thee suddenly, 
And slay thee unarm'd ; he is not knight but knave." 900 

Then at his call, " O daughters of the Dawn, 
And servants of the Morning-Star, approach. 
Arm me," from out the silken curtain-folds 
Bare-footed and bare-headed three fair girls 



374 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

In gilt and rosy raiment came : their feet 905 

In dewy grasses glisten 'd ; and the hair 

All over glanced with dewdrop or with gem 

Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine. 

These arni'd him in blue arms, and gave a shield 

Blue also, and thereon the morning star. 910 

And Gareth silent gazed upon the knight, 

Who stood a moment, ere his horse was brought, 

Glorying ; and in the stream beneath him shone, 

Immingled with Heaven's azure waveringly, 

The gay pavilion and the naked feet, 915 

His arms, the rosy raiment, and the star. 

Then she that watch 'd him : " Wherefore stare ye so ? 
Thou shakest in thy fear : there yet is time : 
Flee down the valley before he get to horse. 
Who will cry shame ? Thou art not knight but knave." 920 

Said Gareth : " Damsel, whether knave or knight. 
Far liefer had I fight a score of times 
Than hear thee so missay me and revile. 
Fair words were best for him who fights for thee ; 
But truly foul are better, for they send 925 

That strength of anger thro' mine arms, I know 
That I shall overthrow him." 

And he that bore 
The star, when mounted, cried from o'er the bridge : 
" A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of me ! 
Such fight not I, but answer scorn with scorn. 930 

For this were shame to do him further wrong 
Than set him on his feet, and take his horse 
And arms, and so return him to the King. 
Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, knave. 
Avoid : for it beseemeth not a knave 935 

To ride with such a lady." 

" Dog, thou liest ! 
I spring from loftier lineage than thine own." 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 375 

He spake ; and all at fiery speed the two 

Shock'd on the central bridge, and either spear 

Bent but not brake, and either knight at once, 940 

Hurl'd as a stone from out of a catapult 

Beyond his horse's crupper and the bridge, 

Fell, as if dead ; but quickly rose and drew. 

And Gareth lash'd so fiercely with his brand 

He drave his enemy backward down the bridge, 945 

The damsel crying, " Well-stricken, kitchen-knave! " 

Till Gareth's shield was cloven ; but one stroke 

Laid him that clove it grovelling on the ground. 

Then cried the fall'n, " Take not my life : I yield." 
And Gareth, " So this damsel ask it of me 950 

Good — I accord it easily as a grace." 
She reddening, " Insolent scullion ! I of thee ? 
I bound to thee for any favour ask'd ! " 
" Then shall he die." And Gareth there unlaced 
His helmet as to slay him, but she shriek'd, 955 

" Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay 
One nobler than thyself." " Damsel, thy charge 
Is an abounding pleasure to me. Knight, 
Thy life is thine at her command. Arise 
And quickly pass to Arthur's hall, and say 960 

His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See thou crave 
His pardon for thy breaking of his laws. 
Myself, when I return, will plead for thee. 
Thy shield is mine — farewell ; and, damsel, thou, 
Lead, and I follow." 

And fast away she fled ; 965 

Then when he came upon her, spake : " Methought, 
Knave, when I watch'd thee striking on the bridge, 
The savour of thy kitchen came upon me 
A little faintlier : but the wind hath changed ; 
I scent it twenty-fold." And then she sang, 970 

" ' O morning star ' — not that tall felon there, 
Whom thou, by sorcery or unhappiness 



576 IDYLLS OF THE K/NG 

Or some device, hast foully overthrown, — 

' O morning star that smilest in the blue, 

O star, my morning dream hath proven true, 975 

Smile sweetly, thou ! my love hath smiled on me.' 

" But thou begone, take counsel, and away, 
For hard by here is one that guards a ford — 
The second brother in their fool's parable — 
Will pay thee all thy wages, and to boot. 980 

Care not for shame: thou art not knight but knave." 

To whom Sir Gareth answer'd, laughingly : 
" Parables ? Hear a parable of the knave. 
When I was kitchen-knave among the rest, 
P'ierce was the hearth, and one of my co-mates 9S5 

Own'd a rough dog, to whom he cast his coat, 
'Guard it,' and there was none to meddle with it. 
And such a coat art thou, and thee the King 
Gave me to guard, and such a dog am I, 
To worry, and not to flee ; and — knight or knave — 990 
The knave that doth thee service as full knight 
Is all as good, meseems, as any knight 
Toward thy sister's freeing." 

" Ay, Sir Knave ! 
Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a knight, 
Being but knave, I hate thee all the more." 995 

" Fair damsel, you should worship me the more. 
That, being but knave, I throw thine enemies." 

" Ay, ay," she said, " but thou shalt meet thy match." 

So when they touch 'd the second river-loop. 
Huge on a high red horse, and all in mail 1000 

Burnish'd to blinding, shone the Noonday Sun, 
Beyond a raging shallow. As if the flower 
That blows a globe of after arrowlets 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 377 

Ten thousand-fold had grown, flash 'd the fierce shield, 

All sun ; and Gareth's eyes had flying blots 1005 

Before them when he turn'd from watching him. 

He from beyond the roaring shallow roar'd, 

" What doest thou, brother, in my marches here ? " 

And she athwart the shallow shrill'd again, 

" Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur's hall loio 

Hath overthrown thy brother, and hath his arms." 

" Ugh ! " cried the Sun, and, vizoring up a red 

And cipher face of rounded foolishness, 

Push'd horse across the foamings of the ford, 

Whom Gareth met mid-stream ; no room was there 1015 

For lance or tourney-skill ; four strokes they struck 

With sword, and these were mighty; the new knight 

Had fear he might be shamed ; but as the Sun 

Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike the fifth. 

The hoof of his horse slipt in the stream, the stream 1020 

Descended, and the Sun was wash'd away. 

Then Gareth laid his lance athwart the ford ; 
So drew him home ; but he that fought no more, 
As being all bone-batter'd on the rock. 
Yielded ; and Gareth sent him to the King. 1025 

" Myself when I return will plead for thee. 
Lead, and I follow." Quietly she led. 
" Hath not the good wind, damsel, changed again ? " 
" Nay, not a point ; nor art thou victor here. 
There lies a ridge of slate across the ford ; 1030 

His horse thereon stumbled — ay, for I saw it. 

" ' O sun ' — not this strong fool whom thou. Sir Knave, 
Hast overthrown thro' mere unhappiness — 
' O sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain, 
O moon, that layest all to sleep again, 1035 

Shine sweetly : twice my love hath smiled on me.' 

" What knowest thou of love-song or of love ? 
Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly born. 
Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, perchance, — 



^y8 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

" 'O dewy flowers that open to the sun, 1040 

O dewy flowers that close when day is done, 
Blow sweetly : twice my love hath smiled on me.' 

" What knowest thou of flowers, except, belike. 
To garnish meats with ? hath not our good King 
Who lent me thee, the flower of kitchendom, 1045 

A foolish love for flowers ? what stick ye round 
The pasty ? wherewithal deck the boar's head ? 
Flowers ? nay, the boar hath rosemaries and bay. 

" ' O birds that warble to the morning sky, 
O birds that warble as the day goes by, 1050 

Sing sweetly : twice my love hath smiled on me.' 

" What knowest thou of birds, lark, mavis, merle, 
Linnet ? what dream ye when they utter forth 
May-music growing with the growing light, 
Their sweet sun-worsjiip ? these be for the snare — 1055 

So runs thy fancy — these be for the spit, 
Larding and basting. See thou have not now 
Larded thy last, except thou turn and fly. 
There stands the third fool of their allegory." 

For there beyond a bridge of treble bow, 1060 

All in a rose-red from the west, and all 
Naked it seem'd, and glowing in the broad 
Deep-dimpled current underneath, the knight 
That named himself the Star of Evening, stood. 

And Gareth, " Wherefore waits the madman there 1065 
Naked in open dayshine ? " " Nay," she cried, 
" Not naked, only wrapt in harden 'd skins 
That fit him like his own ; and so ye cleave 
His armour ofi^ him, these will turn the blade." 

Then the third brother shouted o'er the bridge, 1070 

" O brother-star, why shine ye here so low ? 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 379 

Thy ward is higher up : but have ye slain 

The damsel's champion ? " and the damsel cried : 

" No star of thine, but shot from Arthur's heaven 
With all disaster unto thine and thee ! 1075 

For both thy younger brethren have gone down 
Before this youth ; and so wilt thou, Sir Star ; 
Art thou not old? " 

" Old, damsel, old and hard, 
Old, with the might and breath of twenty boys." 
Said Gareth, "Old, and over-bold in brag! loSo 

But that same strength which threw the Morning Star 
Can throw the Evening." 

Then that other blew 
A hard and deadly note upon the horn. 
" Approach and arm me ! " With slow steps from out 
An old storm-beaten, russet, many-stain 'd 1085 

Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came, 
And arm'd him in old arms, and brought a helm 
With but a drying evergreen for crest, 
And gave a shield whereon the star of even 
Half-tarnish'd and half-bright, his emblem, shone. 1090 

But when it glitter'd o'er the saddle-bow, 
They madly hurl'd together on the bridge ; 
And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, drew, 
There met him drawn, and overthrew him again. 
But up like fire he started : and as oft 1095 

As Gareth brought him grovelling on his knees, 
So many a time he vaulted up again ; 
Till Gareth panted hard, and his great heart, 
Foredooming all his trouble was in vain, 
Labour'd within him, for he seem'd as one iioo 

That all in later, sadder age begins 
To war against ill uses of a life, 
But these from all his life arise, and cry, 
" Thou hast made us lords, and canst not put us down ! " 



38o IDYLLS OF THE KING 

He half despairs ; so Gareth seem'd to strike 1105 

Vainly, the damsel clamouring all the while, 

" Well done, knave-knight, well stricken, O good knight-knave — 

O knave, as noble as any of all the knights — 

Shame me not, shame me not. I have prophesied — 

Strike, thou art worthy of the Table Round — mo 

His arms are old, he trusts the harden'd skin — 

Strike — strike — the wind will never change again." 

And Gareth hearing ever stronglier smote, 

And hew'd great pieces of his armour off him, 

But lash'd in vain against the harden'd skin, 1115 

And could not wholly bring him under, more 

Than loud Southwesterns, rolling ridge on ridge. 

The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and springs 

For ever; till at length Sir Gareth 's brand 

Clash'd his, and brake it utterly to the hilt. 1120 

" I have thee now ; " but forth that other sprang, 

And, all unknightlike, writhed his wiry arms 

Around him, till he felt, despite his mail, 

Strangled, but straining ev'n his uttermost 

Cast, and so hurl'd him headlong o'er the bridge 1125 

Down to the river, sink or swim, and cried, 

" Lead, and I follow." 

But the damsel said : 
" I lead no longer ; ride thou at my side ; 
Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen-knaves. 

" ' O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy plain, 1130 

O rainbow with three colours after rain. 
Shine sweetly : thrice my love hath smiled on me.' 

" Sir, — and, good faith, I fain had added — Knight, 
But that I heard thee call thyself a knave, — 
Shamed am I that I so rebuked, reviled, 1135 

Missaid thee; noble I am ; and thought the King 
Scorn'd me and mine ; and now thy pardon, friend, 
For thou hast ever answer'd courteously. 
And wholly bold thou art, and meek withal 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 38 I 

As any of Arthur's best, but, being knave, 1140 

Hast mazed my wit : I marvel what thou art." 

" Damsel," he said, " you be not all to blame, 
Saving that you mistrusted our good King 
Would handle scorn, or yield you, asking, one 
Not fit to cope your quest. You said your say; 1145 

Mine answer was my deed. Good sooth ! I hold 
He scarce is knight, yea but half-man, nor meet 
To fight for gentle damsel, he, who lets 
His heart be stirr'd with any foolish heat 
At any gentle damsel's waywardness. 1150 

Shamed ? care not ! thy foul sayings fought for me : 
And seeing now thy words are fair, methinks 
There rides no knight, not Lancelot, his great self, 
Hath force to quell me." 

Nigh upon that hour 
When the lone hern forgets his melancholy, 1155 

Lets down his other leg, and stretching, dreams 
Of goodly supper in the distant pool, 
Then turn'd the noble damsel smiling at him. 
And told him of a cavern hard at hand. 
Where bread and baken meats and good red wine 1160 

Of Southland, which the Lady Lyonors 
Had sent her coming champion, waited him. 

Anon they past a narrow comb wherein 
Were slabs of rock with figures, knights on horse 
Sculptured, and deckt in slowly-waning hues. 1165 

" Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once was here. 
Whose holy hand hath fashion'd on the rock 
The war of Time against the soul of man, 
And yon four fools have suck'd their allegory 
From these damp walls, and taken but the form. 1170 

Know ye not these ? " and Gareth lookt and read — 
In letters like to those the vexillary 
Hath left crag-carven o'er the streaming Gelt — 



382 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

"Phosphorus," then " Meridies," — "Hesperus" — 

" Nox " — " Mors," beneath five figures, armed men, 1175 

Slab after slab, their faces forward all. 

And running down the Soul, a shape that fled 

With broken wings, torn raiment, and loose hair, 

For help and shelter to the hermit's cave. 

" Follow the faces, and we find it. Look, nSo 

Who comes behind ? " 

For one — delay'd at first 
Thro' helping back the dislocated Kay 
To Camelot, then by what thereafter chanced. 
The damsel's headlong error thro' the wood — 
Sir Lancelot, having swum the river-loops — 11S5 

His blue shield-lions cover'd — softly drew 
Behind the twain, and when he saw the star 
Gleam, on Sir Gareth's turning to him, cried, 
" Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for my friend." 
And Gareth crying prick'd against the cry ; 1190 

But when they closed — in a moment — at one touch 
Of that skill'd spear, the wonder of the world — 
Went sliding down so easily, and fell. 
That when he found the grass within his hands 
He laugh'd ; the laughter jarr'd upon Lynette : 1195 

Harshly she ask'd him, " Shamed and overthrown, 
And tumbled back into the kitchen-knave. 
Why laugh ye ? that ye blew your boast in vain ? " 
" Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the son 

Of old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent, 1200 

And victor of the bridges and the ford. 
And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by whom 
I know not, all thro' mere unhappiness — 
Device and sorcery and unhappiness — 

Out, sword ; we are thrown ! " And Lancelot answer'd, " Prince, 
O Gareth — thro' the mere unhappiness 1206 

Of one who came to help thee, not to harm, 
Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole 
As on the day when Arthur knighted him." 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 383 

Then Gareth : " Thou — Lancelot ! — thine the hand 1210 
That threw me ? An some chance to mar the boast 
Thy brethren of thee make — which could not chance — 
Had sent thee down before a lesser spear, 
Shamed had I been, and sad — O Lancelot — thou ! " 

Whereat the maiden, petulant : "Lancelot, 1215 

Why came ye not, when call'd ? and wherefore now 
Come ye, not call'd ? I gloried in my knave. 
Who, being still rebuked, would answer still 
Courteous as any knight — but now, if knight. 
The marvel dies, and leaves me fool d and trick'd, 1220 

And only wondering wherefore play'd upon ; 
And doubtful whether I and mine be scorn 'd. 
Where should be truth if not in Arthur's hall. 
In Arthur's presence ? Knight, knave, prince and fool, 
I hate thee and for ever." 

And Lancelot said : 1225 

" Blessed be thou. Sir Gareth ! knight art thou 
To the King's best wish. O damsel, be you wise 
To call him shamed who is but overthrown ? 
Thrown have I been, nor once, but many a time. 
Victor from vanquish 'd issues at the last, 1230 

And overthrower from being overthrown. 
With sword we have not striven ; and thy good horse 
And thou are weary ; yet not less I felt 
Thy manhood thro' that wearied lance of thine. 
Well hast thou done ; for all the stream is freed, 1235 

And thou hast wreak'd his justice on his foes, 
And when reviled hast answer'd graciously. 
And makest merry when overthrown. Prince, knight, 
Hail, knight and prince, and of our Table Round ! " 

And then when turning to Lynette he told 1240 

The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said : 
" Ay, well — ay, well — for worse than being fool'd 
Of others, is to fool one's self. A cave, 
Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and drinks 



584 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

And forage for the horse, and flint' for fire. 1245 

But all about it flies a honeysuckle. 

Seek, till we find." And when they sought and found, 

Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his life 

Past into sleep ; on whom the maiden gazed : 

" Sound sleep be thine ! sound cause to sleep hast thou. 1250 

Wake lusty ! Seem I not as tender to him 

As any mother ? Ay, but such a one 

As all day long hath rated at her child, 

And vext his day, but blesses him asleep — 

Good lord, how sweetly smells the honeysuckle 1255 

In the hush'd night, as if the world were one 

Of utter peace, and love, and gentleness ! 

O Lancelot, Lancelot," — and she clapt her hands — 

" Full merry am I to find my goodly knave 

Is knight and noble. See now, sworn have I, 1260 

Else yon black felon had not let me pass, 

To bring thee back to do the battle with him. 

Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first ; 

Who doubts thee victor ? so will my knight-knave 

Miss the full flower of this accomplishment." 1265 

Said Lancelot : " Peradventure he you name 
May know my shield. Let Gareth, an he will, 
Change his for mine, and take my charger, fresh, 
Not to be spurr'd, loving the battle as well 
As he that rides him." " Lancelot-like," she said, 1270 

" Courteous in this. Lord Lancelot, as in all." 

And Gareth, wakening, fiercely clutch 'd the shield : 
" Ramp, ye lance-splintering lions, on whom all spears 
Are rotten sticks ! ye seem agape to roar ! 
Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your lord ! — 1275 

Care not, good beasts, so well I care for you. 
O noble Lancelot, from my hold on these 
Streams virtue — fire — thro' one that will not shame 
Even the shadow of Lancelot under shield. 
Hence : let us go." 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 385 

Silent the silent field 12S0 

They traversed. Arthur's Harp tho' summer-wan, 
In counter motion to the clouds, allured 
The glance of Gareth dreaming on his liege. 
A star shot : " Lo," said Gareth, " the foe falls ! " 
An owl whoopt : " Hark the victor pealing there ! " 1285 

Suddenly she that rode upon his left 
Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent him, crying: 
" Yield, yield him this again ; 'tis he must fight : 
I curse the tongue that all thro' yesterday 
Reviled thee, and hath wrought on Lancelot now 1290 

To lend thee horse and shield : wonders ye have done ; 
Miracles ye cannot : here is glory enow 
In having flung three : I see thee maim'd. 
Mangled : I swear thou canst not fling the fourth." 

" And wherefore, damsel ? tell me all ye know. 1295 

You cannot scare me ; nor rough face, or voice, 
Brute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery 
Appal me from the quest." 

"Nay, prince," she cried, 
" God wot, I never look'd upon the face. 
Seeing he never rides abroad by day ; 1300 

But watch 'd him have I like a phantom pass 
Chilling the night : nor have I heard the voice. 
Always he made his mouthpiece of a page 
Who came and went, and still reported him 
As closing in himself the strength of ten, 1305 

And when his anger tare him, massacring 
Man, woman, lad, and girl — yea, the soft babe ! 
Some hold that he hath swallow'd infant flesh. 
Monster ! O Prince, I went for Lancelot first, 
The quest is Lancelot's : give him back the shield." 1310 

Said Gareth laughing, " An he fight for this, 
Belike he wins it as the better man : 
Thus — and not else ! " 



386 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

But Lancelot on him urged 
All the devisings of their chivalry 

When one might meet a mightier than himself ; 1315 

How best to manage horse, lance, sword, and shield, 
And so fill up the gap where force might fail 
With skill and fineness. Instant were his words. 

Then Gareth : " Here be rules. I know but one — 
To dash against mine enemy and to win. 1320 

Yet have I watch'd thee victor in the joust. 
And seen thy way." " Heaven help thee ! " sigh'd Lynette. 

Then for a space, and under cloud that grew 
To thunder-gloom palling all stars, they rode 
In converse till she made her palfrey halt, 1325 

Lifted an arm, and softly whisper'd, " There." 
And all the three were silent seeing, pitch'd 
Beside the Castle Perilous on flat held, 
A huge pavilion like a mountain peak 

Sunder the glooming crimson on the marge, 1330 

Black, with black banner, and a long black horn 
Beside it hanging; which Sir Gareth graspt. 
And so, before the two could hinder him. 
Sent all his heart and breath thro' all the horn. 
Echo'd the walls ; a light twinkled ; anon -1335 

Came lights and lights, and once again he blew ; 
Whereon were hollow tramplings up and down 
And muffled voices heard, and shadows past ; 
Till high above him, circled with her maids, 
The Lady Lyonors at a window stood, 1340 

Beautiful among lights, and waving to him 
White hands and courtesy ; but when the prince 
Three times had blown — after long hush — at last — 
The huge pavilion slowly yielded up. 

Thro' those black foldings, that which housed therein. 1345 
High on a night-black horse, in night-black arms. 
With white breast-bone, and barren ribs of Death, 
And crown'd with fleshless laughter — some ten steps — 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 387 

In the half-light — thro' the dim dawn — advanced 

The monster, and then paused, and spake no word. 1350 

But Gareth spake and all indignantly : 
" Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength of ten. 
Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God hath given. 
But must, to make the terror of thee more. 
Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries 1355 

Of that which Life hath done with, and the clod. 
Less dull than thou, will hide with mantling flowers 
As if for pity ? " But he spake no word ; 
Which set the horror higher : a maiden swoon 'd ; 
The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands and wept, 1360 

As doom'd to be the bride of Night and Death ; 
Sir Gareth's head prickled beneath his helm ; 
And even Sir Lancelot thro' his warm blood felt 
Ice strike, and all that mark'd him were aghast. 



J":) 



At once Sir Lancelot's charger fiercely neigh 'd, 136 

And Death's dark war-horse bounded forward with him. 
Then those that did not blink the terror, saw 
That Death was cast to ground, and slowly rose. 
But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the skull. 
Half fell to right and half to left and lay. 1370 

Then with a stronger buffet he clove the helm 
As throughly as the skull ; and out from this 
Issued the bright face of a blooming boy 
Fresh as a flower new-born, and crying, " Knight, 
Slay me not : my three brethren bade me do it, 1375 

To make a horror all about the house. 
And stay the world from Lady Lyonors ; 
They never dream'd the passes would be past." 
Answer'd Sir Gareth graciously to one 

Not many a moon his younger, " My fair child, 13S0 

What madness made thee challenge the chief knight 
Of Arthur's hall ? " " Fair Sir, they bade me do it. 
They hate the King and Lancelot, the King's friend ; 
They hoped to slay him somewhere on the stream, 
They never dream'd the passes could be past." 1385 



388 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Then sprang the happier day from underground ; 
And Lady Lyonors and her house, with dance 
And revel and song, made merry over Death, 
As being after all their foolish fears 

And horrors only proven a blooming boy. 1390 

So large mirth lived, and Gareth won the quest. 

And he that told the tale in older times 
Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors, 
But he that told it later says Lynette. 

LANCELOT AND ELAINE 

Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable, 

Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, 

High in her chamber up a tower to the east 

Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot ; 

Which first she placed where morning's earliest ray 5 

Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam ; 

Then, fearing rust or soilure, fashion'd for it 

A case of silk, and braided thereupon 

All the devices blazon'd on the shield 

In their own tinct, and added, of her wit, 10 

A border fantasy of branch and flower. 

And yellow-throated nestling in her nest. 

Nor rested thus content, but day by day. 

Leaving her household and good father, climb'd 

That eastern tower, and entering barr'd her door, 15 

Stript off the case, and read the naked shield, 

Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his arms. 

Now made a pretty history to herself 

Of every dint a sword had beaten in it. 

And every scratch a lance had made upon it, 20 

Conjecturing when and where : this cut is fresh ; 

That ten years back ; this dealt him at Caerlyle ; 

That at Caerleon ; this at Camelot : 

And ah, God's mercy, what a stroke was there ! 

And here a thrust that might have kill'd, but God 25 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE 389 

Broke the strong lance, and roll'd his enemy down, 
And saved him : so she Uved in fantasy. 

How came the lily maid by that good shield 
Of Lancelot, she that knew not ev'n his name ? 
He left it with her, when he rode to tilt 30 

For the great diamond in the diamond jousts, 
Which Arthur had ordain'd, and by that name 
Had named them, since a diamond was the prize. 

For Arthur, long before they crown 'd him king, 
Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse, 35 

Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn. 
A horror lived about the tarn, and clave 
Like its own mists to all the mountain side : 
For here two brothers, one a king, had met 
And fought together ; but their names were lost ; 40 

And each had slain his brother at a blow ; 
And down they fell and made the glen abhorr'd : 
And there they lay till all their bones were bleach'd. 
And lichen'd into colour with the crags : 
And he that once was king had on a crown 45 

Of diamonds, one in front and four aside. 
And Arthur came, and labouring up the pass. 
All in a misty moonshine, unawares 
Had trodden that crown 'd skeleton, and the skull 
Brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown 50 

Roll'd into light, and turning on its rims 
Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn : 
And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and caught, 
And set it on his head, and in his heart 
Heard murmurs, " Lo, thou likewise shalt be king." 55 

Thereafter, when a king, he had the gems 
Pluck'd from the crown, and show'd them to his knights, 
Saying : " These jewels, whereupon I chanced 
Divinely, are the kingdom's, not the King's — 
For public use : henceforward let there be, 60 

Once every year, a joust for one of these : 



390 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

For so by nine years' proof we needs must learn 

Which is our mightiest, and ourselves shall grow 

In use of arms and manhood, till we drive 

The heathen, who, some say, shall rule the land 65 

Hereafter, which God hinder ! " Thus he spoke : 

And eight years past, eight jousts had been, and still 

Had Lancelot won the diamond of the year, 

With purpose to present them to the Queen 

When all were won ; but, meaning all at once 70 

To snare her royal fancy with a boon 

W^orth half her realm, had never spoken word. 

Now for the central diamond and the last 
And largest, Arthur, holding then his court 

Hard on the river nigh the place which now 75 

Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust 
At Camelot, and when the time drew nigh 
Spake — for she had been sick — to Guinevere : 
" Are you so sick, my Queen, you cannot move 
To these fair jousts ? " "Yea, lord," she said, "ye know it." 80 
" Then will ye miss," he answer'd, "the great deeds 
Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists, 
A sight ye love to look on." And the Queen 
Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidly 

On Lancelot, where he stood beside the King. 85 

He, thinking that he read her meaning there, 
" Stay with me, I am sick ; my love is more 
Than many diamonds," yielded ; and a heart 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen — 
However much he yearn'd to make complete 90 

The tale of diamonds for his destined boon — 
Urged him to speak against the truth, and say, 
" Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly whole. 
And lets me from the saddle ; " and the King 
Glanced first at him, then her, and went his way. 95 

No sooner gone than suddenly she began : 

" To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, mucti to blame ! 
W' hy go ye not to these fair jousts ? the knights 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 39 1 

Are half of them our enemies, and the crowd 

Will murmur, ' Lo, the shameless ones, who take 100 

Their pastime now the trustful King is gone ! ' " 

Then Lancelot, vext at having lied in vain : 

" Are ye so wise ? ye were not once so wise. 

My Queen, that summer when ye loved me first. 

Then of the crowd ye took no more account 105 

Than of the myriad cricket of the mead, 

When its own voice clings to each blade of grass, 

And every voice is nothing. As to knights. 

Them surely can I silence with all ease. 

But now my loyal worship is allow'd no 

Of all men : many a bard, without offence. 

Has link'd our names together in his lay, 

Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guinevere, 

The pearl of beauty ; and our knights at feast 

Have pledged us in this union, while the King 115 

Would listen smiling. How then ? is there more ? 

Has Arthur spoken aught ? or would yourself. 

Now weary of my service and devoir. 

Henceforth be truer to your faultless lord ? " 

She broke into a little scornful laugh : 120 

" Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless King, 
That passionate perfection, my good lord — 
But who can gaze upon the sun in heaven ? 
He never spake word of reproach to me, 
He never had a glimpse of mine untruth, 125 

He cares not for me : only here to-day 
There gleam 'd a vague suspicion in his eyes : 
Some meddling rogue has tamper'd with him — else 
Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round, 
And swearing men to vows impossible, 130 

To make them like himself ; but, friend, to me 
He is all fault who hath no fault at all : 
For who loves me must have a touch of earth ; 
The low sun makes the colour : I am yours, 
Nor Arthur's, as ye know, save by the bond. 135 



392 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

And therefore hear my words : go to the jousts : 
The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our dream 
When sweetest ; and the vermin voices here 
May buzz so loud — we scorn them, but they sting." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of knights : 140 

" And with what face, after my pretext made, 
Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I 
Before a king who honours his own word 
As if it were his God's ? " 

" Yea," said the Queen, 
"A moral child without the craft to rule, 145 

Else had he not lost me : but listen to me, 
If I must find you wit : we hear it said 
That men go down before your spear at a touch, 
But knowing you are Lancelot ; your great name. 
This conquers : hide it therefore ; go unknown : 150 

Win ! by this kiss you will : and our true King 
Will then allow your pretext, O my knight, 
As all for glory ; for to speak him true. 
Ye know right well, how meek soe'er he seem. 
No keener hunter after glory breathes. 155 

He loves it in his knights more than himself ; 
They prove to him his work: win and return." 

Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse. 
Wroth at himself. Not willing to be known. 
He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare, 160 

Chose the green path that show'd the rarer foot, 
And there among the solitary downs. 
Full often lost in fancy, lost his way; 
Till as he traced a faintly-shadow'd track. 
That all in loops and links among the dales 165 

Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw 
Fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers. 
Thither he made, and blew the gateway horn. 
Then came an old, dumb, myriad-wrinkled man, 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 






Who let him into lodging and disarm'd. 170 

And Lancelot marvell'd at the wordless man ; 

And issuing found the Lord of Astolat 

With two strong sons, Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine, 

Moving to meet him in the castle court ; 

And close behind them stept the lily maid 175 

Elaine, his daughter : mother of the house 

There was not. Some light jest among them rose 

W'ith laughter dying down as the great knight 

Approach 'd them ; then the Lord of Astolat : 

" Whence comest thou, my guest, and by what name 180 

Livest between the lips ? for by thy state 

And presence I might guess thee chief of those, 

After the King, who eat in Arthur's halls. 

Him have I seen : the rest, his Table Round, 

Known as they are, to me they are unknown." 1S5 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of knights : 
" Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, and known, 
What I by mere mischance have brought, my shield. 
But since I go to joust as one unknown 
At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not ; 190 

Hereafter ye shall know me — and the shield — 
I pray you lend me one, if such you have. 
Blank, or at least with some device not mine." 

Then said the Lord of Astolat : " Here is Torre's : 
Hurt in his first tilt was my son. Sir Torre ; 195 

And so, God wot, his shield is blank enough. 
His ye can have." Then added plain Sir Torre, 
" Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may have it." 
Here laugh'd the father saying : " Fie, Sir Churl, 
Is that an answer for a noble knight ? 200 

Allow him ! but Lavaine, my younger here. 
He is so full of lustihood, he will ride. 
Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an hour. 
And set it in this damsel's golden hair. 
To make her thrice as wilful as before." 205 



394 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

" Nay, father, nay, good father, shame me not 
Before this noble knight," said young Lavaine, 
" For nothing. Surely I but play'd on Torre : 
He seem'd so sullen, vext he could not go : 
A jest, no more ! for, knight, the maiden dreamt 210 

That some one put this diamond in her hand, 
And that it was too slippery to be held. 
And slipt and fell into some pool or stream, 
The castle-well, belike ; and then I said 
That if I went, and if I fought and won it — 215 

But all was jest and joke among ourselves — 
Then must she keep it safelier. All was jest. 
But, father, give me leave, an if he will, 
To ride to Camelot with this noble knight: 
Win shall I not, but do my best to win ; 220 

Young as I am, yet would I do my best." 

" So ye will grace me," answer'd Lancelot, 
Smiling a moment, " with your fellowship 
O'er these waste downs whereon I lost myself, 
Then were I glad of you as guide and friend : 225 

And you shall win this diamond, — as I hear, 
It is a fair large diamond, — if ye may, 
And yield it to this maiden, if ye will." 
"A fair large diamond," added plain Sir Torre, 
" Such be for queens, and not for simple maids." 230 

Then she, who held her eyes upon the ground, 
Elaine, and heard her name so tost about. 
Flush 'd slightly at the slight disparagement 
Before the stranger knight, who, looking at her, 
Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus return 'd : 235 

" If what is fair be but for what is fair, 
And only queens are to be counted so. 
Rash were my judgment then, who deem this maid 
Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth. 
Not violating the bond of like to like." 240 

He spoke and ceased : the lily maid Elaine, 
Won by the mellow voice before she look'd. 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 395 

Lifted her eyes and read his lineaments. 

The great and guilty love he bare the Queen, 

In battle with the love he bare his lord, 245 

Had marr'd his face, and mark'd it ere his time. 

Another sinning on such heights with one, 

The flower of all the west and all the world, 

Had been the sleeker for it ; but in him 

His mood was often like a fiend, and rose 250 

And drove him into wastes and solitudes 

For agony, who was yet a living soul. 

Marr'd as he was, he seem'd the goodliest man 

That ever among ladies ate in hall. 

And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes. 255 

However marr'd, of more than twice her years, 

Seam'd with an ancient sword-cut on the cheek, 

And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes 

And loved him, with that love which was her doom. 

Then the great knight, the darling of the court, 260 
Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall 
Stept with all grace, and not with half disdain 
Hid under grace, as in a smaller time. 
But kindly man moving among his kind : 
Whom they with meats and vintage of their best 265 

And talk and minstrel melody entertain'd. 
And much they ask'd of court and Table Round, 
And ever well and readily answer'd he ; 
But Lancelot, when they glanced at Guinevere, 
Suddenly speaking of the wordless man, 270 

Heard from the baron that, ten years before. 
The heathen caught and reft him of his tongue. 
"He learnt and warn'd me of their fierce design 
Against my house, and him they caught and maim'd ; 
But I, my sons, and little daughter fled 275 

From bonds or death, and dwelt among the woods 
By the great river in a boatman's hut. 
Dull days were those, till our good Arthur broke 
The Pagan yet once more on Badon hill." 



396 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

" O there, great lord, doubtless," Lavaine said, rapt 280 
By all the sweet and sudden passion of youth 
Toward greatness in its elder, " you have fought. 
O tell us — for we live apart — you know 
Of Arthur's glorious wars." And Lancelot spoke 
And answer'd him at full, as having been 285 

With Arthur in the fight which all day long 
Rang by the white mouth of the violent Glem ; 
And in the four loud battles by the shore 
Of Duglas ; that on Bassa ; then the war 
That thunder'd in and out the gloomy skirts 290 

Of Celidon the forest ; and again 
By Castle Gurnion, where the glorious King 
Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's Head, 
Carv'd of one emerald center'd in a sun 
Of silver rays, that lighten'd as he breathed ; 295 

And at Caerleon had he help'd his lord. 
When the strong neighings of the wild white Horse 
Set every gilded parapet shuddering ; 
And up in Agned-Cathregonion too, 

And down the waste sand-shores of Trath Treroit, 300 

Where many a heathen fell ; " and on the mount 
Of Badon I myself beheld the King 
Charge at the head of all his Table Round, 
And all his legions crying Christ and him. 
And break them ; and I saw him, after, stand 305 

High on a heap of slain, from spur to plume 
Red as the rising sun with heathen blood. 
And seeing me, with a great voice he cried, 
' They are broken, they are broken ! ' for the King, 
However mild he seems at home, nor cares 310 

For triumph in our mimic wars, the jousts — 
For if his own knight cast him down, he laughs. 
Saying his knights are better men than he — 
Yet in this heathen war the fire of God 
Fills him : I never saw his like ; there lives 315 

No greater leader." 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 397 

While he utter'd this, 
Low to her own heart said the hly maid, 
" Save your great self, fair lord ; " and when he fell 
From talk of war to traits of pleasantry — 
Being mirthful he, but in a stately kind — 320 

She still took note that when the living smile 
Died from his lips, across him came a cloud 
Of melancholy severe, from which again, 
Whenever in her hovering to and fro 

The lily maid had striven to make him cheer, 32s 

There brake a sudden-beaming tenderness 
Of manners and of nature : and she thought 
That all was nature, all, perchance, for her. 
And all night long his face before her lived, 
As when a painter, poring on a face, 330 

Divinely thro' all hindrance finds the man 
Behind it, and so paints him that his face, 
The shape and colour of a mind and life. 
Lives for his children, ever at its best 

And fullest ; so the face before her lived, 335 

Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full 
Of noble things, and held her from her sleep. 
Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the thought 
She needs must bid farewell to sweet Lavaine. 
First as in fear, step after step, she stole 340 

Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating : 
Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the court, 
" This shield, my friend, where is it ? " and Lavaine 
Past inward, as she came from out the tower. 
There to his proud horse Lancelot turn'd, and smooth'd 345 
The glossy shoulder, humming to himself. 
Half-envious of the flattering hand, she drew 
Nearer and stood. He look'd, and, more amazed 
Than if seven men had set upon him, saw 
The maiden standing in the dewy light. 350 

He had not dream'd she was so beautiful. 
Then came on him a sort of sacred fear. 
For silent, tho' he greeted her, she stood 



398 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Rapt on his face as if it were a God's. 

Suddenly flash'd on her a wild desire 355 

That he should wear her favour at the tilt. 

She braved a riotous heart in asking for it. 

" Fair lord, whose name I know not — noble it is, 

I well believe, the noblest — will you wear 

My favour at this tourney ? " " Nay," said he, 360 

" Fair lady, since I never yet have worn 

Favour of any lady in the lists. 

Such is my wont, as those who know me, know." 

" Yea, so," she answer'd ; " then in wearing mine 

Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord, 365 

That those who know should know you." And he turn'd 

Her counsel up and down within his mind, 

And found it true, and answer'd : " True, my child. 

Well, I will wear it : fetch it out to me : 

What is it ? " and she told him, " A red sleeve 370 

Broider'd with pearls," and brought it: then he bound 

Her token on his helmet, with a smile 

Saying, " I never yet have done so much 

For any maiden living," and the blood 

Sprang to her face and fill'd her with delight ; 375 

But left her all the paler, when Lavaine 

Returning brought the yet-unblazon'd shield, 

His brother's ; which he gave to Lancelot, 

Who parted with his own to fair Elaine : 

" Do me this grace, my child, to have my shield 380 

In keeping till I come." " A grace to me," 

She answer'd, " twice to-day. I am your squire ! " 

Whereat Lavaine said, laughing : " Lily maid. 

For fear our people call you lily maid 

In earnest, let me bring your colour back ; 385 

Once, twice, and thrice : now get you hence to bed : " 

So kiss'd her, and Sir Lancelot his own hand. 

And thus they moved away : she stay'd a minute, 

Then made a sudden step to the gate, and there — 

Her bright hair blown about the serious face 390 

Yet rosy kindled with her brother's kiss — 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 399 

Paused by the gateway, standing near the shield 

In silence, while she watch'd their arms far-off 

Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs. 

Then to her tower she climb'd, and took the shield, 395 

There kept it, and so lived in fantasy. 

Meanwhile the new companions past away 
Far o'er the long backs of the bushless downs, 
To where Sir Lancelot knew there Hved a knight 
Not far from Camelot, now for forty years 400 

A hermit, who had pray'd, labour'd and pray'd, 
And ever labouring had scoop'd himself 
In the white rock a chapel and a hall 
On massive columns, like a shore-chff cave, 
And cells and chambers : all were fair and dry ; 405 

The green light from the meadows underneath 
Struck up and lived along the milky roofs ; 
And in the meadows tremulous aspen-trees 
And poplars made a noise of falling showers. 
And thither wending there that night they bode. 410 

But when the next day broke from underground. 
And shot red fire and shadows thro' the cave, 
They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode away. 
Then Lancelot saying, " Hear, but hold my name 
Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the Lake," 415 

Abash 'd Lavaine, whose instant reverence. 
Dearer to true young hearts than their own praise, 
But left him leave to stammer, " Is it indeed ? " 
And after muttering, " The great Lancelot," 
At last he got his breath and answer'd : " One, 420 

One have I seen — that other, our liege lord, 
The dread Pendragon, Britain's King of kings, 
Of whom the people talk mysteriously. 
He will be there — then were I stricken blind 
That minute, I might say that I had seen." 425 

So spake Lavaine, and when they reach'd the lists 
By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes 



400 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Run thro' the peopled gallery which half round 

Lay like a rainbow fall'n upon the grass, 

Until they found the clear-faced King, who sat 430 

Robed in red samite, easily to be known, 

Since to his crown the golden dragon clung, 

And down his robe the dragon writhed in gold, 

And from the carven-work behind him crept 

Two dragons gilded, sloping down to make 435 

Arms for his chair, while all the rest of them 

Thro' knots and loops and folds innumerable 

Fled ever thro' the woodwork, till they found 

The new design wherein they lost themselves, 

Yet with all ease, so tender was the work : 440 

And, in the costly canopy o'er him set, 

Blazed the last diamond of the nameless king. 

Then Lancelot answer'd young Lavaine and said : 
" Me you call great : mine is the firmer seat, 
The truer lance : but there is many a youth 445 

Now crescent, who will come to all I am 
And overcome it ; and in me there dwells 
No greatness, save it be some far-off touch 
Of greatness to know well I am not great : 
There is the man." And Lavaine gaped upon him 450 
As on a thing miraculous, and anon 
The trumpets blew ; and then did either side. 
They that assail'd, and they that held the lists, • 
Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move, 
Meet in the midst, and there so furiously 455 

Shock, that a man far-off might well perceive, 
If any man that day were left afield, 
The hard earth shake, and a low thunder of arms. 
And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw 
Which were the weaker; then he hurl'd into it 460 

Against the stronger : little need to speak 
Of Lancelot in his glory ! King, duke, earl, 
Count, baron — whom he smote, he overthrew. 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 4OI 

But in the field were Lancelot's kith and kin, 
Ranged with the Table Round that held the lists, 465 

Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger knight 
Should do and almost overdo the deeds 
Of Lancelot ; and one said to the other, " Lo ! 
What is he ? I do not mean the force alone — 
The grace and versatility of the man ! 470 

Is it not Lancelot ? " " When has Lancelot worn 
Favour of any lady in the lists ? 
Not such his wont, as we that know him, know." 
" How then ? who then ? " a fury seized them all, 
A fiery family passion for the name 475 

Of Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs. 
They couch'd their spears and prick'd their steeds, and thus, 
Their plumes driv'n backward by the wind they made 
In moving, all together down upon him 

Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North Sea, 480 

Green-glimmering toward the summit, bears, with all 
Its stormy crests that smoke against the skies, 
Down on a bark, and overbears the bark, 
And him that helms it ; so they overbore 
Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear 485 

Down-glancing lamed the charger, and a spear 
Prick'd sharply his own cuirass, and the head 
Pierced thro' his side, and there snapt and remain'd. 

Then Sir Lavaine did well and worshipfuUy : 
He bore a knight of old repute to the earth, 490 

And brought his horse to Lancelot where he lay. 
He up the side, sweating with agony, got. 
But thought to do while he might yet endure. 
And being lustily holpen by the rest. 

His party, — tho' it seem'd half-miracle 495 

To those he fought with, — drave his kith and kin, 
And all the Table Round that held the lists, 
Back to the barrier ; then the trumpets blew 
Proclaiming his the prize who wore the sleeve 
Of scarlet and the pearls ; and all the knights, 500 



402 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

His party, cried, " Advance and take thy prize 

The diamond ; " but he answer'd : " Diamond me 

No diamonds ! for God's love, a Httle air ! 

Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death ! 

Hence will I, and I charge you, follow me not." 505 

He spoke, and vanish'd suddenly from the field 
With young Lavaine into the poplar grove. 
There from his charger down he slid, and sat, 
Gasping to Sir Lavaine, " Draw the lance-head." 
"Ah, my sweet lord Sir Lancelot," said Lavaine, 510 

" I dread me, if I draw it, you will die." 
But he, " I die already with it : draw — 
Draw," — and Lavaine drew, and Sir Lancelot gave 
A marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan, 
And half his blood burst forth, and down he sank 515 

P'or the pure pain, and wholly swoon'd away. 
Then came the hermit out and bare him in. 
There stanch'd his wound ; and there, in daily doubt 
Whether to live or die, for many a week 
Hid from the wild world's rumour by the grove 520 

Of poplars with their noise of falling showers. 
And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay. 

But on that day when Lancelot fled the lists. 
His party, knights of utmost North and West, 
Lords of waste marches, kings of desolate isles, 525 

Came round their great Pendragon, saying to him, 
" Lo, Sire, our knight, thro' whom we won the day. 
Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his prize 
Untaken, crying that his prize is death." 
'■' Heaven hinder," said the King, " that such an one, 530 
So great a knight as we have seen to-day — 
He seem'd to me another Lancelot — 
Yea, twenty times I thought him Lancelot — 
He must not pass uncared for. Wherefore rise, 
O Gawain, and ride forth and find the knight. 535 

Wounded and wearied, needs must he be near. 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 403 

I charge you that you get at once to horse. 

And, knights and kings, there breathes not one of you 

Will deem this prize of ours is rashly given : 

His prowess was too wondrous. We will do him 540 

No customary honour : since the knight 

Came not to us, of us to claim the prize. 

Ourselves will send it after. Rise and take 

This diamond, and deliver it, and return. 

And bring us where he is, and how he fares, 545 

And cease not from your quest until ye find." 

So saying, from the carven flower above. 
To which it made a restless heart, he took 
And gave the diamond : then from where he sat 
At Arthur's right, with smiling face arose, 550 

With smiling face and frowning heart, a prince 
In the mid might and flourish of his May, 
Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair and strong. 
And after Lancelot, Tristram, and Geraint 
And Gareth, a good knight, but therewithal 555 

Sir Modred's brother, and the child of Lot, 
Nor often loyal to his word, and now 
Wroth that the King's command to sally forth 
In quest of whom he knew not, made him leave 
The banquet and concourse of knights and kings. 560 

So all in wrath he got to horse and went ; 
While Arthur to the banquet, dark in mood, 
Past, thinking, " Is it Lancelot who hath come 
Despite the wound he spake of, all for gain 
Of glory, and hath added wound to wound, 565 

And ridd'n away to die ? " So fear'd the King, 
And, after two days' tarriance there, return'd. 
Then when he saw the Queen, embracing ask'd, 
" Love, are you yet so sick ? " " Nay, lord," she said. 
" And where is Lancelot ? " Then the Queen amazed, 570 
" Was he not with you ? won he not your prize ? " 
" Nay, but one like him." " Why, that like was he." 



404 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

And when the King demanded how she knew, 

Said : " Lord, no sooner had ye parted from us, 

Than Lancelot told me of a common talk 575 

That men went down before his spear at a touch, 

But knowing he was Lancelot ; his great name 

Gonquer'd ; and therefore would he hide his name 

From all men, ev'n the King, and to this end 

Had made the pretext of a hindering wound, 580 

That he might joust unknown of all, and learn 

If his old prowess were in aught decay'd ; 

And added, ' Our true Arthur, when he learns, 

Will well allow my pretext, as for gain 

Of purer glory.' " 

Then replied the King : 585 

" Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been, 
In lieu of idly dallying with the truth, 
To have trusted me as he hath trusted thee. 
Surely his King and most familiar friend 
Might well have kept his secret. True, indeed, 590 

Albeit I know my knights fantastical. 
So fine a fear in our large Lancelot 
Must needs have moved my laughter : now remains 
But little cause for laughter : his own kin — 
111 news, my Queen, for all who love him, this ! — 595 

His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him ; 
So that he went sore wounded from the field : 
Yet good news too ; for goodly hopes are mine 
That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart. 
He wore, against his wont, upon his helm 600 

A sleeve of scarlet, broider'd with great pearls, 
Some gentle maiden's gift." 

"Yea, lord," she said, 
"Thy hopes are mine," and saying that, she choked. 
And sharply turn'd about to hide her face, 
Past to her chamber, and there flung herself 605 

Down on the great King's couch, and writhed upon it. 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 405 

And clench'd her fingers till they bit the palm, 

And shriek'd out "Traitor! " to the unhearing wall, 

Then flash 'd into wild tears, and rose again. 

And moved about her palace, proud and pale. 610 

Gawain the while thro' all the region round 
Rode with his diamond, wearied of the quest, 
Touch'd at all points except the poplar grove, 
And came at last, tho' late, to Astolat : 
Whom glittering in enamell'd arms the maid 615 

Glanced at, and cried, " What news from Camelot, lord ? 
What of the knight with the red sleeve ? " " He won." 
" I knew it," she said. " But parted from the jousts 
Hurt in the side ; " whereat she caught her breath ; 
Thro' her own side she felt the sharp lance go ; 620 

Thereon she smote her hand ; wellnigh she swoon'd : 
And, while he gazed wonderingly at her, came 
The Lord of Astolat out, to whom the prince 
Reported who he was, and on what quest 
Sent, that he bore the prize and could not find 625 

The victor, but had ridd'n a random round 
To seek him, and had wearied of the search. 
To whom the Lord of Astolat : " Bide with us. 
And ride no more at random, noble prince ! 
Here was the knight and here he left a shield ; 630 

This will he send or come for : furthermore, 
Our son is with him ; we shall hear anon, 
Needs must we hear," To this the courteous prince 
Accorded with his wonted courtesy. 

Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it, 633 

And stay'd ; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine : 
Where could be found face daintier ? then her shape 
From forehead down to foot, perfect — again 
From foot to forehead exquisitely turn'd : 
*' Well — if I bide, lo ! this wild flower for me I " 640 

And oft they met among the garden yews, 
And there he set himself to play upon her 
With sallying wit, free flashes from a height 



406 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Above her, graces of the court, and songs, 

Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden eloquence 645 

And amorous adulation, till the maid 

Rebell'd against it, saying to him : " Prince, 

O loyal nephew of our noble King, 

Why ask you not to see the shield he left. 

Whence you might learn his name ? Why slight your King, 650 

And lose the quest he sent you on, and prove 

No surer than our falcon yesterday, 

Who lost the hern we slipt her at, and went 

To all the winds ? " " Nay, by mine head," said he, 

" I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven, 655 

damsel, in the light of your blue eyes ; 
But, an ye will it, let me see the shield." 

And when the shield was brought, and Gawain saw 

Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crown'd with gold, 

Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, and mock'd : 660 

" Right was the King ! our Lancelot ! that true man ! " 

" And right was I," she answer'd merrily, " I, 

Who dream'd my knight the greatest knight of all." 

" And if / dream'd," said Gawain, " that you love 

This greatest knight, your pardon ! lo, ye know it ! 665 

Speak therefore : shall I waste myself in vain ? " 

Full simple was her answer : " What know I ? 

My brethren have been all my fellowship ; 

And I, when often they have talk'd of love, 

Wish'd it had been my mother, for they talk'd, 670 

Meseem'd, of what they knew not; so myself — 

1 know not if I know what true love is, 
But if I know, then, if I love not him, 

I know there is none other I can love." 

" Yea, by God's death," said he, " ye love him well, 675 

But would not, knew ye what all others know, 

And whom he loves." " So be it," cried Elaine, 

And lifted her fair face and moved away : 

But he pursued her, calling, " Stay a little ! 

One golden minute's grace ! he wore your sleeve : 680 

Would he break faith with one I may not name ? 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE 407 

Must our true man change like a leaf at last ? 

Nay — like enow : why then, far be it from me 

To cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves ! 

And, damsel, for I deem you know full well 685 

Where your great knight is hidden, let me leave 

My quest with you ; the diamond also : here ! 

For if you love, it will be sweet to give it ; 

And if he love, it will be sweet to have it 

From your own hand ; and whether he love or not, 690 

A diamond is a diamond. Fare you well 

A thousand times ! — a thousand times farewell ! 

Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we two 

May meet at court hereafter : there, I think, 

So ye will learn the courtesies of the court, 695 

We two shall know each other." 

Then he gave, 
And slightly kiss'd the hand to which he gave, 
The diamond, and all wearied of the quest 
Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he went 
A true-love ballad, lightly rode away. 700 

Thence to the court he past ; there told the King 
What the King knew, " Sir Lancelot is the knight." 
And added, " Sire, my liege, so much I learnt ; 
But fail'd to find him, tho' I rode all round 
The region : but I lighted on the maid 705 

Whose sleeve he wore ; she loves him ; and to her. 
Deeming our courtesy is the truest law, 
I gave the diamond : she will render it ; 
For by mine head she knows his hiding-place." 

The seldom-frowning King frown'd, and replied, 710 
" Too courteous truly ! ye shall go no more 
On quest of mine, seeing that ye forget 
Obedience is the courtesy due to kings." 

He spake and parted. Wroth, but all in awe, 
For twenty strokes of the blood, without a word, 715 



408 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Linger'd that other, staring after him ; 

Then shook his hair, strode off, and buzz'd abroad 

About the maid of Astolat, and her love. 

All ears were prick'd at once, all tongues were loosed : 

" The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lancelot, 720 

Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Astolat." 

Some read the King's face, some the Queen's, and all 

Had marvel what the maid might be, but most 

Predoom'd her as unworthy. One old dame 

Came suddenly on the Queen with the sharp news. 725 

She, that had heard the noise of it before, 

But sorrowing Lancelot should have stoop'd so low, 

Marr'd her friend's aim with pale tranquillity. 

So ran the tale like fire about the court. 

Fire in dry stubble a nine-days' wonder flared : 730 

Till ev'n the knights at banquet twice or thrice 

Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen, 

And, pledging Lancelot and the lily maid, 

Smiled at each other, while the Queen, who sat 

With lips severely placid, felt the knot 735 

Climb in her throat, and with her feet unseen 

Crush'd the wild passion out against the floor 

Beneath the banquet, where the meats became 

As wormwood, and she hated all who pledged. 

But far away the maid in Astolat, 740 

Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept 
The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her heart, 
Crept to her father, while he mused alone, 
Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face and said : 
" Father, you call me wilful, and the fault 745 

Ls yours who let me have my will, and now. 
Sweet father, will you let me lose my wits ? '' 
" Nay," said he, " surely." " Wherefore, let me hence," 
She answer'd, " and find out our dear Lavaine." 
" Ye will not lose your wits for dear Lavaine : 750 

Bide," answer'd he : " we needs must hear anon 
Of him, and of that other." " Ay," she said, 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 409 

" And of that other, for I needs must hence 

And find that other, wheresoe'er he be, 

And with mine own hand give his diamond to him, 755 

Lest I be found as faithless in the quest 

As yon proud prince who left the quest to me. 

Sweet father, I behold him in my dreams 

Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, 

Death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden's aid. 760 

The gentler-born the maiden, the more bound, 

My father, to be sweet and serviceable 

To noble knights in sickness, as ye know. 

When these have worn their tokens : let me hence, 

1 pray you." Then her father nodding said : 765 

" Ay, ay, the diamond : wit ye well, my child, 

Right fain were I to learn this knight were whole, 

Being our greatest : yea, and you must give it — 

And sure I think this fruit is hung too high 

For any mouth to gape for save a queen's — 770 

Nay, I mean nothing : so then, get you gone, 

Being so very wilful you must go." 

Lightly, her suit allow'd, she slipt away. 
And while she made her ready for her ride. 
Her father's latest word humm'd in her ear, 775 

" Being so very wilful you must go," 
And changed itself and echo'd in her heart, 
" Being so very wilful you must die." 
But she was happy enough and shook it off, 
As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us ; 780 

And in her heart she answer'd it and said, 
" What matter, so I help him back to life ? " 
Then far away with good Sir Torre for guide 
Rode o'er the long backs of the bushless downs 
To Camelot, and before the city-gates 785 

Came on her brother with a happy face 
Making a roan horse caper and curvet 
For pleasure all about a field of flowers ; 
Whom when she saw, "Lavaine," she cried, "Lavaine, 



410 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

How fares my lord Sir Lancelot ? " He amazed, 790 

" Torre and Elaine ! why here ? Sir Lancelot ! 

How know ye my lord's name is Lancelot ? " 

But when the maid had told him all her tale, 

Then turn'd Sir Torre, and being in his moods 

Left them, and under the strange-statued gate, 795 

Where Arthur's wars were render'd mystically. 

Past up the still rich city to his kin. 

His own far blood, which dwelt at Camelot ; 

And her, Lavaine across the poplar grove 

Led to the caves : there first she saw the casque 800 

Of Lancelot on the wall : her scarlet sleeve, 

Tho' carved and cut, and half the pearls away, 

Stream'd from it still ; and in her heart she laugh'd. 

Because he had not loosed it from his helm, 

But meant once more perchance to tourney in it. S05 

And when they gain'd the cell wherein he slept. 

His battle-writhen arms and mighty hands 

Lay naked on the wolf-skin, and a dream 

Of dragging down his enemy made them move. 

Then she that saw him lying unsleek, unshorn, 810 

Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, 

Utter'd a little tender dolorous cry. 

The sound not wonted in a place so still 

Woke the sick knight, and while he roll'd his eyes 

Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying, 815 

" Your prize the diamond sent you by the King." 

His eyes glisten'd : she fancied, " Is it for me ? " 

And when the maid had told him all the tale 

Of king and prince, the diamond sent, the quest 

Assign 'd to her not worthy of it, she knelt 820 

Full lowly by the corners of his bed. 

And laid the diamond in his open hand. 

.Her face was near, and as we kiss the child 

That does the task assign'd, he kiss'd her face. 

At once she slipt like water to the floor. 825 

"Alas," he said, "your ride hath wearied you. 

Rest must you have." " No rest for me," she said ; 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE 411 

" Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest." 

What might she mean by that ? his large black eyes. 

Yet larger thro' his leanness, dwelt upon her, 830 

Till all her heart's sad secret blazed itself 

In the heart's colours on her simple face ; 

And Lancelot look'd and was perplext in mind, 

And being weak in body said no more, 

But did not love the colour ; woman's love, 835 

Save one, he not regarded, and so turn'd 

Sighing, and feign'd a sleep until he slept. 

Then rose Elaine and glided thro' the fields, 
And past beneath the weirdly-sculptured gates 
Far up the dim rich city to her kin ; S40 

There bode the night: but woke with dawn, and past 
Down thro' the dim rich city to the fields. 
Thence to the cave. So day by day she past, 
In either twilight ghost-like to and fro 
Gliding, and every day she tended him, 845 

And likewise many a night ; and Lancelot 
Would, tho' he call'd his wound a little hurt 
Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times 
Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem 
Uncourteous, even he : but the meek maid 850 

Sweetly forbore him ever, being to him 
Meeker than any child to a rough nurse, 
Milder than any mother to a sick child. 
And never woman yet, since man's first fall, 
Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love 855 

Upbore her ; till the hermit, skill'd in all 
The simples and the science of that time. 
Told him that her fine care had saved his life. » 
And the sick man forgot her simple blush, 
Would call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine, 860 

Would listen for her coming and regret 
Her parting step, and held her tenderly. 
And loved her with all love except the love 
Of man and woman when they love their best, 



412 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Closest and sweetest, and had died the death S63 

In any knightly fashion for her sake. 

And peradventure had he seen her first 

She might have made this and that other world 

Another world for the sick man ; but now 

The shackles of an old love straiten'd him, 870 

His honour rooted in dishonour stood, 

And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. 

Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness made 
Full many a holy vow and pure resolve. 
These, as but born of sickness, could not live : 875 

For when the blood ran lustier in him again. 
Full often the bright image of one face. 
Making a treacherous quiet in his heart, 
Dispersed his resolution like a cloud. 
Then if the maiden, while that ghostly grace 880 

Beam'd on his fancy, spoke, he answer 'd not, 
Or short and coldly, and she knew right well 
What the rough sickness meant, but what this meant 
She knew not, and the sorrow dimm'd her sight. 
And drave her ere her time across the fields 885 

Far into the rich city, where alone 
She murmur'd, " Vain, in vain : it cannot be. 
He will not love me : how then ? must I die? " 
Then as a little helpless innocent bird, 
That has but one plain passage of few notes, 890 

Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er 
For all an April morning, till the ear 
Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid 
Went half the night repeating, " Must I die ? " 
And now to right she turn'd, and now to left, 895 

And found no ease in turning or in rest ; 
And " Him or death," she mutter'd, " death or him," 
Again and like a burthen, " Him or death." 

But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was whole, 
To Astolat returning rode the three. 900 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE 413 

There morn by morn, arraying her sweet self 

In that wherein she deem'd she look'd her best, 

She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought, 

'' If I be loved, these are my festal robes, 

If not, the victim's flowers before he fall." 905 

And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid 

That she should ask some goodly gift of him 

For her own self or hers : " and do not shun 

To speak tlfe wish most near to your true heart ; 

Such service have ye done me that I make 910 

My will of yours, and prince and lord am I 

In mine own land, and what I will I can." 

Then like a ghost she lifted up her face, 

But like a ghost without the power to speak. 

And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish, 915 

And bode among them yet a little space 

Till he should learn it ; and one morn it chanced 

He found her in among the garden yews, 

And said, " Delay no longer, speak your wish. 

Seeing I go to-day : " then out she brake : 920 

" Going ? and we shall never see you more. 

And I must die ior want of one bold word." 

" Speak : that I live to hear," he said, " is yours." 

Then suddenly and passionately she spoke : 

" I have gone mad. I love you : let me die." 925 

"Ah, sister," answer'd Lancelot, " what is this ? " 

And innocently extending her white arms, 

," Your love," she said, " your love — to be your wife." 

And Lancelot answer'd, " Had I chosen to wed, 

I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine ; 930 

But now there never will be wife of mine." 

" No, no," she cried, " I care not to be wife, 

But to be with you still, to see your face. 

To serve you, and to follow you thro' the world." 

And Lancelot answer'd : " Nay, the world, the world, 935 

All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart 

To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue 

To blare its own interpretation — nay. 



414 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Full ill then should I quit your brother's love, 

And your good father's kindness." And she said, 940 

" Not to be with you, not to see your face — 

Alas for me then, my good days are done ! " 

" Nay, noble maid," he answer'd, "ten times nay! 

This is not love, but love's first flash in youth, 

Most common : yea, I know it of mine own self ; 945 

And you yourself will smile at your own self 

Hereafter, when you yield your flower* of life 

To one more fitly yours, not thrice your age 1 

And then will I, for true you are and sweet 

Beyond mine old belief in womanhood, 950 

More specially should your good knight be poor. 

Endow you with broad land and territory 

Even to the half my realm beyond the seas, 

So that would make you happy : furthermore, 

Ev'n to the death, as tho' ye were my blood, 955 

In all your quarrels will I be your knight. 

This will I do, dear damsel, for your sake, 

And more than this I cannot." 

While he spoke 
She neither blush 'd nor shook, but deathly-pale 
Stood grasping what was nearest, then replied, 960 

" Of all this will I nothing ; " and so fell, 
And thus they bore her swooning to her tower. 

Then spake, to whom thro' those black walls of yew 
Their talk had pierced, her father : " Ay, a flash, 
I fear me, that will strike my blossom dead. 965 

Too courteous are ye, fair Lord Lancelot. 
I pray you, use some rough discourtesy 
To blunt or break her passion." 

Lancelot said, 
" That were against me : what I can I will ; " 
And there that day remain'd, and toward even 970 

Sent for his shield : full meekly rose the maid, 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE 415 

Stript off the case, and gave the naked shield ; 

Then, when she heard his horse upon the stones, 

Unclasping flung the casement back, and look'd 

Down on his helm, from which her sleeve had gone. 975 

And Lancelot knew the little clinking sound ; 

And she by tact of love was well aware 

That Lancelot knew that she was looking at him. 

And yet he glanced not up, nor waved his hand. 

Nor bade farewell, but sadly rode away. 9S0 

This was the one discourtesy that he used. 

So in her tower alone the maiden sat : 
His very shield was gone ; only the case, 
Her own poor work, her empty labour, left. 
But still she heard hiin, still his picture form'd 985 

And grew between her and the pictured wall. 
Then came her father, saying in low tones, 
" Have comfort," whom she greeted quietly. 
Then came her brethren saying, " Peace to thee. 
Sweet sister," whom she answer 'd with all calm. 990 

But when they left her to herself again. 
Death, like a friend's voice from a distant field 
Approaching thro' the darkness, call'd ; the owls 
Wailing had power upon her, and she mixt 
Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms 995 

Of evening, and the meanings of the wind. 

And in those days she made a little song, 
And call'd her song " The Song of Love and Death," 
And sang it : sweetly could she make and sing. 

" Sweet is true love tho' given in vain, in vain ; 1000 
And sweet is death who puts an end to pain : 
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

" Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be : 
Love, thou art bitter ; sweet is death to me. 
O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. 1005 



4l6 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

" Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away, 
Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay, 
I know not w'hich is sweeter, no, not I. 

" I fain would follow love, if that could be ; 
I needs must follow death, who calls for me ; loio 

Call and I follow, I follow! let me die." 

High with the last line scaled her voice, and this. 
All in a fiery dawning wild with wind 
That shook her tower, the brothers heard, and thought 
With shuddering, " Hark the Phantom of the house 1015 
That ever shrieks before a death," and call'd 
The father, and all three in hurry and fear 
Ran to her, and lo ! the blood-red light of dawn 
Flared on her face, she shrilling, " Let me die ! " 

As when we dwell upon a word we know, 1020 

Repeating, till the word we know so well 
Becomes a wonder, and we know not why, 
So dwelt the father on her face, and thought 
" Is this Elaine ? " till back the maiden fell. 
Then gave a languid hand to each, and lay, 1025 

Speaking a still good-morrow with her eyes. 
At last she said : " Sweet brothers, yesternight 
I seem'd a curious little maid again. 
As happy as when we dwelt among the woods. 
And when ye used to take me with the flood 1030 

Up the great river in the boatman's boat. 
Only ye would not pass beyond the cape 
That had the poplar on it : there ye fixt 
Your limit, oft returning with the tide. 
And yet I cried because ye would not pass 1035 

Beyond it, and far up the shining fiood 
Until we found the palace of the King. 
And yet ye would not ; but this night I dream'd 
That I was all alone upon the flood. 
And then I said, ' Now shall I have my will : ' 1040 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE 417 

And there I woke, but still the wish remain'd. 

So let me hence that I may pass at last 

Beyond the poplar and far up the flood, 

Until I find the palace of the King. 

There will I enter in among them all, 1045 

And no man there will dare to mock at me ; 

But there the fine Gawain will wonder at me, 

And there the great Sir Lancelot muse at me ; 

Gawain, who bade a thousand farewells to me, 

Lancelot, who coldly went, nor bade me one : 105c 

And there the King will know me and my love. 

And there the Queen herself will pity me. 

And all the gentle court will welcome me, 

And after my long voyage I shall rest ! " 

" Peace," said her father, "O my child, ye seem 1055 

Light-headed, for what force is yours to go 
So far, being sick ? and wherefore would ye look 
On this proud fellow again, who scorns us all ? " 

Then the rough Torre began to heave and move. 
And bluster into stormy sobs and say : 1060 

" I never loved him : an I meet with him, 
I care not howsoever great he be, 
Then will I strike at him and strike him down ; 
Give me good fortune, I will strike him dead. 
For this discomfort he hath done the house." 1065 

To whom the gentle sister made reply : 
" Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor be wroth. 
Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's fault 
Not to love me, than it is mine to love 
Him of all men who seems to me the highest." 1070 

" Highest ? " the father answer'd, echoing " highest ? " — 
He meant to break the passion in her — " nay, 
Daughter, I know not what you call the highest ; 
But this I know, for all the people know it, 



41 8 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

He loves the Queen, and in an open shame: 1075 

And she returns his love in open shame ; 
If this be high, what is it to be low ? " 

Then spake the lily maid of Astolat : 
" Sweet father, all too faint and sick am I 
For anger : these are slanders ; never yet loSo 

Was noble man but made ignoble talk. 
He makes no friend who never made a foe. 
But now it is my glory to have loved 
One peerless, without stain : so let me pass, 
My father, howsoe'er I seem to you, 10S5 

Not all unhappy, having loved God's best 
And greatest, tho' my love had no return : 
Yet, seeing you desire your child to live. 
Thanks, but you work against your own desire ; 
For if I could believe the things you say 1090 

I should but die the sooner ; wherefore cease, 
Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly man 
Hither, and let me shrive me clean, and die." 

So when the ghostly man had come and gone, 
She, with a face bright as for sin forgiven, 1095 

Besought Lavaine to write as she devised 
A letter, word for word ; and when he ask'd, 
" Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear lord ? 
Then will I bear it gladly ; " she replied, 
" For Lancelot and the Queen and all the world, noo 

But I myself must bear it." Then he wrote 
The letter she devised ; which being writ 
And folded, " O sweet father, tender and true, 
Deny me not," she said — " ye never yet 
Denied my fancies — this, however strange, 1105 

My latest : lay the letter in my hand 
A little ere I die, and close the hand 
Upon it; I shall guard it even in death. 
And when the heat is gone from out my heart. 
Then take the little bed on which I died mo 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE 419 

For Lancelot's love, and deck It like the Queen's 

For richness, and me also like the Queen 

In all I have of rich, and lay me on it. 

And let there be prepared a chariot-bier 

To take me to the river, and a barge 1115 

Be ready on the river, clothed in black. 

I go in state to court, to meet the Queen. 

There surely I shall speak for mine own self, 

And none of you can speak for me so well. 

And therefore let our dumb old man alone 1120 

Go with me ; he can steer and row, and he 

Will guide me to that palace, to the doors." 

She ceased : her father promised ; whereupon 
She grew so cheerful that they deem'd her death 
Was rather in the fantasy than the blood. 1125 

But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh 
Her father laid the letter in her hand. 
And closed the hand upon it, and she died. 
So that day there was dole in Astolat. 

But when the next sun brake from underground, 1130 
Then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows 
Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier 
Past like a shadow thro' the field, that shone 
Full-summer, to that stream whereon the barge, 
Pall'd all its length in blackest samite, lay. 1135 

There sat the lifelong creature of the house, 
Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck. 
Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face. 
So those two brethren from the chariot took 
And on the black decks laid her in her bed, 1140 

Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung 
The silken case with braided blazonings. 
And kiss'd her quiet brows, and saying to her, 
" Sister, farewell for ever," and again 
" Farewell, sweet sister," parted all in tears. 1145 

Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead, 



420 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Oar'd by the dumb, went upward with the flood — 

In her right hand the hly, in her left 

The letter — all her bright hair streaming down — 

And all the coverlid was cloth of gold 1150 

Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white 

All but her face, and that clear-featured face 

Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead, 

But fast asleep, and lay as tho' she smiled. 

That day Sir Lancelot at the palace craved 1155 

Audience of Guinevere, to give at last 
The price of half a realm, his costly gift. 
Hard-won and hardly won with bruise and blow, 
With deaths of others, and' almost his own. 
The nine-years-fought-for diamonds: for he saw 1160 

One of her house, and sent him to the Queen 
Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen agreed 
With such and so unmoved a majesty 
She might have seem'd her statue, but that he. 
Low-drooping till he wellnigh kiss'd her feet 1165 

For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye 
The shadow of some piece of pointed lace, 
In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the walls, 
And parted, laughing in his courtly heart. 

All in an oriel on the summer side, 1170 

Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward the stream. 
They met, and Lancelot kneeling utter'd, "Queen, 
Lady, my liege, in whom I have my joy, 
Take, what I had not won except for you, 
These jewels, and make me happy, making them 1175 
An armlet for the roundest arm on earth, 
Or necklace for a neck to which the swan's 
Is tawnier than her cygnet's : these are words : 
Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin 
In speaking, yet O grant my worship of it nSo 

Words, as we grant grief tears. Such sin in words 
Perchance, we both can pardon : but, my Queen, 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 42 1 

I hear of rumours flying thro' your court. 

Our bond, as not the bond of man and wife, 

Should have in it an absoluter trust 1185 

To make up that defect : let rumours be : 

When did not rumours fly ? these, as I trust 

That you trust me in your own nobleness, 

I may not well believe that you believe." 

While thus he spoke, half turn'd away, the Queen 1190 
Brake from the vast oriel-embowering vine 
Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast them off, 
Till all the place whereon she stood was green ; 
Then, when he ceased, in one cold passive hand 
Received at once and laid aside the gems 1195 

There on a table near her, and replied : 

" It may be I am quicker of belief 
Than you believe me, Lancelot of the Lake, 
Our bond is not the bond of man and wife. 
This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill, 1200 

It can be broken easier. I for you 
This many a year have done despite and wrong 
To one whom ever in my heart of hearts 
I did acknowledge nobler. What are these ? 
Diamonds for me ! they had been thrice their worth 1205 
Being your gift, had you not lost your own. 
To loyal hearts the value of all gifts 
Must vary as the giver's. Not for me ! 
For her ! for your new fancy. Only this 
Grant me, I pray you : have your joys apart. 1210 

I doubt not that, however changed, you keep 
So much of what is graceful : and myself 
Would shun to break those bounds of courtesy 
In which as Arthur's Queen I move and rule : 
So cannot speak my mind. An end to this ! 1215 

A strange one ! yet I take it with Amen. 
So pray you, add my diamonds to her pearls ; 
Deck her with these ; tell her she shines me down : 



422 . IDYLLS OF THE A'hVG 

An armlet for an arm to which the Queen's 

Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck 1220 

O as much fairer — as a faith once fair 

Was richer than these diamonds — hers not mine — 

Nay, by the mother of our Lord himself. 

Or hers or mine, mine now to work my will — 

She shall not have them." 

Saying which she seized, 1225 
And, thro' the casement standing wide for heat, 
Flung them, and down they flash'd, and smote the stream. 
Then from the smitten surface flash'd, as it were. 
Diamonds to meet them, and they past away. 
Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half disdain 1230 

At love, life, all things, on the window ledge, 
Close underneath his eyes, and right across 
Where these had fallen, slowly past the barge 
Whereon the Hly maid of Astolat 
Lay smiling, like a star in blackest night. 1235 

But the wild Queen, who saw not, burst away 
To weep and wail in secret ; and the barge, 
On to the palace-doorway sliding, paused. 
There two stood arm'd, and kept the door ; to whom. 
All up the marble stair, tier over tier, 1240 

Were added mouths th^t gaped, and eyes that ask'd, 
" What is it? " but that oarsman's haggard face, 
As hard and still as is the face that men 
Shape to their fancy's eye from broken rocks 
On some cliff-side, appall'd them, and they said, 1245 

" He is enchanted, cannot speak — and she, 
Look how she sleeps — the Fairy Queen, so fair ! 
Yea, but how pale ! what are they ? flesh and blood 
Or come to take the King to Fairyland ? 
For some do hold our Arthur cannot die, 1250 

But that he passes into Fairyland." 

While thus they babbled of the King, the King 
Came girt with knights : then turn'd the tongueless man 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE 423 

From the half-face to the full eye, and rose 

And pointed to the damsel, and the doors. 1255 

So Arthur bade the meek Sir Percivale 

And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid ; 

And reverently they bore her into hall. 

Then came the fine Gawain and wonder'd at her, 

And Lancelot later came and mused at her, 1260 

And last the Queen herself, and pitied her : 

But Arthur spied the letter in her hand, 

Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it ; this was all : 

" Most noble lord. Sir Lancelot of the Lake, 
I, sometime call'd the maid of Astolat, 1265 

Come, for you left me taking no farewell. 
Hither, to take my last farewell of you. 
I loved you, and my love had no return, 
And therefore my true love has been my death. 
And therefore to our Lady Guinevere, 1270 

And to all other ladies, I make moan : 
Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. 
Pray for my soul thou too. Sir Lancelot, 
As thou art a knight peerless." 

Thus he read ; 
And ever in the reading, lords and dames 1275 

Wept, looking often from his face who read 
To hers which lay so silent, and at times, 
So touch'd were they, half-thinking that her lips, 
Who had devised the letter, moved again. 

Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to them all : 1280 

" My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that hear. 
Know that for this most gentle maiden's death 
Right heavy am I ; for good she was and true, 
But loved me with a love beyond all love 
In women, whomsoever I have known. 1285 

Yet to be loved makes not to love again ; 
Not at my years, however it hold in youth. 



424 IDYLLS OF THE KLVG 

I swear by truth and knighthood that I gave 

No cause, not wilUngly, for such a love : 

To this I call my friends in testimony, 1290 

Her brethren, and her father, who himself 

Besought me to be plain and blunt, and use, 

To break her passion, some discourtesy 

Against my nature : what I could, I did. 

I left her and I bade her no farewell ; 1295 

Tho' had I dreamt the damsel would have died, 

I might have put my wits to some rough use. 

And help'd her from herself." 

Then said the Queen 
(Sea was her wrath, yet working after storm) 
" Ye might at least have done her so much grace, 1300 

Fair lord, as would have help'd her from her death." 
He raised his head, their eyes met and hers fell, 
He adding : 

" Queen, she would not be content 
Save that I wedded her, which could not be. 
Then might she follow me thro' the world, she ask'd ; 1305 
It could not be. I told her that her love 
Was but the flash of youth, would darken down. 
To rise hereafter in a stiller flame 
Toward one more worthy of her — then would I, 
More specially were he, she wedded, poor, 1310 

Estate them with large land and territory 
In mine own realm beyond the narrow seas. 
To keep them in all joyance : more than this 
I could not ; this she would not, and she died." 

He pausing, Arthur answer'd, " O my knight, 1315 

It will be to thy worship, as my knight. 
And mine, as head of all our Table Round, 
To see that she be buried worshipfully." 

So toward that shrine which then in all the realm 
Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly went 1320 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 425 

The marshaird Order of their Table Round, 

And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, to see 

The maiden buried, not as one unknown, 

Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies. 

And mass, and rolling music, like a queen. 1325 

And when the knights had laid her comely head 

Low in the dust of half-forgotten kings, 

Then Arthur spake among them, " Let her tomb 

Be costly, and her image thereupon, 

And let the shield of Lancelot at her feet 1330 

Be carven, and her lily in her hand. 

And let the story of her dolorous voyage 

For all true hearts be blazon 'd on her tomb 

In letters gold and azure ! " which was wrought 

Thereafter ; but when now the lords and dames 1335 

And people, from the high door streaming, brake 

Disorderly, as homeward each, the Queen, 

Who mark'd Sir Lancelot where he moved apart. 

Drew near, and sigh'd in passing, " Lancelot, 

Forgive me; mine was jealousy in love." 1340 

He answer'd with his eyes upon the ground, 

" That is love's curse ; pass on, my Queen, forgiven." 

But Arthur, who beheld his cloudy brows, 

Approach'd him, and with full affection said : 

" Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in whom I have 1345 

Most joy and most affiance, for I know 
What thou hast been in battle by my side. 
And many a time have watch'd thee at the tilt 
Strike down the lusty and long-practised knight. 
And let the younger and unskill'd go by 1350 

To win his honour and to make his name. 
And loved thy courtesies and thee, a man 
Made to be loved ; but now I would to -God, 
Seeing the homeless trouble in thine eyes. 
Thou couldst have loved this maiden, shaped, it seems, 1355 
By God for thee alone, and from her face, 
If one may judge the living by the dead, 



426 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Delicately pure and marvellously fair, 

Who might have brought thee, now a lonely man 

Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons 1360 

Born to the glory of thy name and fame, 

My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of the Lake." 

Then answer'd Lancelot : " Fair she was, my King, 
Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be. 
To doubt her fairness were to want an eye, 1365 

To doubt her pureness were to want a heart — 
Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love 
Could bind him, but free love will not be bound." 

" Free love, so bound, were freest," said the King. 
" Let love be free ; free love is for the best: 1370 

And, after heaven, on our dull side of death. 
What should be best, if not so pure a love 
Clothed in so pure a loveliness ? yet thee 
She fail'd to bind, tho' being, as I think. 
Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I know." 1375 

And Lancelot answer'd nothing, but he went, 
And at the inrunning of a little brook 
Sat by the river in a cove, and watch'd 
The high reed wave, and lifted up his eyes 
And saw the barge that brought her moving down, 1380 
Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and said 
Low in himself, " Ah, simple heart and sweet, 
Ye loved me, damsel, surely with a love 
Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray for thy soul ? 
Ay, that will L Farewell too — now at last — 13S5 

Farewell, fair lily. ' Jealousy in love ? ' 
Not rather dead love's harsh heir, jealous pride ? 
Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of love. 
May not your crescent fear for name and fame 
Speak, as it waxes, of a love that wanes ? 1390 

Why did the King dwell on my name to me ? 
Mine own name shames me, seeming a reproach, 
Lancelot, whom the Lady of the Lake 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 427 

Caught from his mother's arms — the wondrous one 

Who passes thro' the vision of the night — 1395 

She chanted snatches of mysterious hymns 

Heard on the winding waters, eve and morn 

She kiss'd me saying, ' Thou art fair, my child, 

As a king's son,' and often in her arms 

She bare me, pacing on the dusky mere. 1400 

Would she had drown 'd me in it, where'er it be ! 

For what am I ? what profits me my name 

Of greatest knight ? I fought for it, and have it : 

Pleasure to have it, none ; to lose it, pain ; 

Now grown a part of me : but what use in it ? 1405 

To make men worse by making my sin known ? 

Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming great ? 

Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a man 

Not after Arthur's heart ! I needs must break 

These bonds that so defame me : not without 1410 

She wills it : would I, if she will'd it ? nay. 

Who knows ? but if I would not, then may God, 

I pray him, send a sudden angel down 

To seize me by the hair and bear me far, 

And fling me deep in that forgotten mere, 1415 

Among the tumbled fragments of the hills." 

So groan'd Sir Lancelot in remorseful pain, 
Not knowing he should die a holy man. 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 

That story which the bold Sir Bedivere, 
First made and latest left of all the knights, 
Told, when the man was no more than a voice 
In the white winter of his age, to those 
With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds. 

For on their march to westward, Bedivere, 
Who slowly paced among the slumbering host, 
Heard in his tent the moanings of the King : 



428 IDYLLS OF THE KLNG 

" I found Him in the shining of the stars, 
I inark'd Him in the flowering of His fields, lo 

But in His ways with men I find Him not. 
I waged His wars, and now I pass and die. 
O me ! for why is all around us here 
As if some lesser god had made the world, 
But had not force to shape it as he would, 15 

Till the High God behold it from beyond, 
And enter it, and make it beautiful ? 
Or else as if the world were wholly fair. 
But that these eyes of men are dense and dim, 
And have not power to see it as it is : 20 

Perchance, because we see not to the close ; — 
For I, being simple, thought to work His will, 
And have but stricken with the sword in vain ; 
And all whereon I lean'd in wife and friend 
Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm 25 

Reels back into the beast, and is no more. 
My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death : 
Nay — God my Christ — I pass but shall not die." 

Then, ere that last weird battle in the west. 
There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain kill'd 30 

In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain blown 
Along a wandering wind, and past his ear 
Went shrilling, " Hollow, hollow all delight ! 
Hail, King ! to-morrow thou shalt pass away. 
Farewell ! there is an isle of rest for thee. 35 

And I am blown along a wandering wind, 
And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight! " 
And fainter onward, like wild birds that change 
Their season in the night and wail their way 
From cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dream 40 
Shrill 'd ; but in going mingled with dim cries 
Far in the moonlit haze among the hills, 
As of some lonely city sack'd by night, 
When all is lost, and wife and child with wail 
Pass to new lords ; and Arthur woke and call'd, 45 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR ^20 

" Who spake ? A dream. O light upon the wind, 
Thine, Gawain, was the voice — are these dim cries 
Thine ? or doth all that haunts the waste and wild 
Mourn, knowing it will go along with me ? " 

This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake : 50 

" O me, my King, let pass whatever will. 
Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field ; 
But in their stead thy name and glory cling 
To all high places like a golden cloud 

For ever : but as yet thou shalt not pass. 55 

Light was Gawain in life, and light in death 
Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man ; 
And care not thou for dreams from him, but rise — 
I hear the steps of Modred in the west. 
And with him many of thy people, and knights 60 

Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown 
Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee. 
Right well in heart they know thee for the King. 
Arise, go forth and conquer as of old." 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 65 

" Far other is this battle in the west 
Whereto we move, than when we strove in youth, 
And brake the petty kings, and fought with Rome, 
Or thrust the heathen from the Roman wall, 
And shook him thro' the north. Ill doom is mine 70 

To war against my people and my knights. 
The king who fights his people fights himself. 
And they my knights, who loved me once, the stroke 
That strikes them dead is as my death to me. 
Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way 7S 

Thro' this blind haze which, ever since I saw 
One lying in the dust at Almesbury, 
Hath folded in the passes of the world." 

Then rose the King and moved his host by night, 
And ever push'd Sir Modred, league by league, 80 



430 fDYLLS OF THE KING 

Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse — 

A land of old upheaven from the abyss 

By fire, to sink into the abyss again ; 

Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt, 

And the long mountains ended in a coast 85 

Of ever-shifting sand, and far away 

The phantom circle of a moaning sea. 

There the pursuer could pursue no more, 

And he that fled no further fly the King ; 

And there, that day when the great light of heaven 90 

Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling year, 

On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed. 

Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight 

Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west. 

A deathwhite mist slept over sand and sea, 95 

Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew 

Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold 

With formless fear ; and ev'n on Arthur fell 

Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought. 

For friend and foe were shadows in the mist, 100 

And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew ; 

And some had visions out of golden youth. 

And some beheld the faces of old ghosts 

Look in upon the battle ; and in the mist 

Was many a noble deed, many a base, 105 

And chance and craft and strength in single fights, 

And ever and anon with host to host 

Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn. 

Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash 

Of battle-axes on shatter'd helms, and shrieks no 

After the Christ, of those who falling down 

Look'd up for heaven, and only saw the mist ; 

And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights, 

Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous blasphemies, 

Sweat, writhings, anguish, labouring of the lungs 115 

In that close mist, and cryings for the light. 

Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead. 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 43 I 

Last, as by some one deathbed after wail 
Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' death 
Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore, 120 

Save for some whisper of the seething seas, 
A dead hush fell ; but when the dolorous day 
Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came 
A bitter wind, clear from the North, and blew 
The mist aside, and with that wind the tide 125 

Rose, and the pale King glanced across the field 
Of battle : but no man was moving there ; 
Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon, 
Nor yet of heathen ; only the wan wave 
Brake in among dead faces, to and fro 130 

Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down 
Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen, 
And shiver'd brands that once had fought with Rome, 
And rolling far along the gloomy shores 
The voice of days of old and days to be. 135 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere, 
And whiter than the mist that all day long 
Had held the field of battle was the King : 

" Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world, 
And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move, 140 

And beats upon the faces of the dead, 
My dead, as tho' they had not died for me ? — 
O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fall'n 
Confusion, till I know not what I am, 
Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King. 145 

Behold, I seem but King among the dead." 

Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere : " My King, 
King everywhere ! and so the dead have kings, 
There also will I worship thee as King. 
Yet still thy life is whole, and still I live 150 

Who love thee ; but who hates thee, he that brought 
The heathen back among us, yonder stands, 
Modred, unharm'd, the traitor of thine house." 



432 IDYLLS OF TLLE KING 

Then spake the King: " My house hath been my doom. 
But call not thou this traitor of my house 155 

Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof with me. 
My house are rather they who sware my vows, 
Yea, even while they brake them, own'd me King. 
And well for thee, saying in my dark hour, 
When all the purport of my throne hath fail'd, 160 

That quick or dead thou boldest me for King. 
King am I, whatsoever be their cry ; 
And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see 
Yet, ere I pass." And uttering this the King 
Made at the man : then Modred smote his liege 165 

Hard on that helm which many a heathen sword 
Had beaten thin ; while Arthur at one blow. 
Striking the last stroke with Excalibur, 
Slew him, and, all but slain himself, he fell. 

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 170 

Among the mountains by the winter sea ; 
Until King Arthur's Table, man by man. 
Had fall'n in Lyonnesse about their lord. 
King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep, 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 175 

And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross. 
That stood on a dark strait of barren land : 
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 180 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
" The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we 185 

Shall never more, at any future time. 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 433 

I perish by this people which I made, — 190 

Tho' Merhn sware that I should come again 

To rule once more ; but, let what will be, be, 

I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 

That without help I cannot last till morn. 

Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 195 

Which was my pride : for thou rememberest how 

In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 

Rose up from out the bosom of the lake. 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 

Holding the sword — and how I row'd across 200 

And took it, and have worn it, like a king ; 

And, wheresoever I am sung or told 

In aftertime, this also shall be known : 

But now delay not : take Excalibur, 

And fiing him far into the middle mere ; 205 

Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word." 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
"It is not meet. Sir King, to leave thee thus. 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm — 
A little thing may harm a wounded man ; 210 

Yet I thy hest will all perform at full. 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept. 
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs. 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, 215 

Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down 
By zigzag paths and juts of pointed rock, 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 220 

And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt ; 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks. 



434 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 225 

Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 

That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood, 

This way and that dividing the swift mind, 

In act to throw : but at last it seeni'd 

Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 230 

There in the many-knotted water-flags. 

That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 

So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
" Hast thou perform 'd my mission which I gave ? 235 

What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 
And the wild water lapping on the crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale : 240 

" Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name, 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight ; 
Yox surer sign had follow'd, either hand. 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 245 

This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again. 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word." 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 250 

Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought ; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud : 255 

" And if indeed I cast the brand away. 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, 
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 435 

Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. 

What good should follow this, if this were done ? 260 

What harm, undone ? Deep harm to disobey, 

Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 

Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 

An act unprofitable, against himself ? 

The King is sick, and knows not what he does. 265 

What record or what relic of my lord 

Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 

And rumours of a doubt ? But were this kept. 

Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, 

Some one might show it at a joust of arms, 270 

Saying : ' King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 

Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 

Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 

Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 

So might some old man speak in the aftertime 275 

To all the people, winning reverence. 

But now much honour and much fame were lost." 

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit. 
And hid Excalibur the second time. 
And so strode back slow to the wounded King. 280 

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily : 
" What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" I heard the water lapping on the crag. 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 285 

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath : 
" Ah, miserable and unkind, vmtrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king, 

Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 290 

That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art. 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights. 



436 IDYLLS OF THE KLVG 

In whom should meet the offices of all, 

Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; 

Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 295 

Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 

Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice. 

And the third time may prosper, get thee hence : 

But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 

I will arise and slay thee with my hands." 300 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
Among the bulrush beds, and clutch'd the sword, 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, 305 

And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, 'with noises of the Northern Sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur ; 310 

But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 315 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath : 
" Now see 1 by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, or seen ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems 320 

Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, 
Nor tho' I live three lives of mortal men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 

Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him ; 325 

But when I look'd again, behold an arm, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 437 

That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere." 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard : 330 
" My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, 
And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 

So saying, from the pavement he half rose, 335 

Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found not words ; 340 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee. 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, 
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 

But, as he walk'd. King Arthur panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 345 

When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, " Quick, quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge. 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd, 350 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and right 355 

The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 
And on a sudden, lo, the level lake. 
And the long glories of the winter moon ! 360 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern. 



438 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Beneath them ; and descending they were ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately forms, 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these 365 

Three Queens with crowns of gold : and from them rose 
.A cry that shiver 'd to the tingling stars, 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one comes, 370 

Or hath come, since the making of the world. 

Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me in the barge." 
So to the barge they came. There those three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them all 375 

And fairest, laid his head upon her lap. 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands. 
And caird him by his name, complaining loud. 
And dropping bitter tears against a brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white 380 

And colourless, and like the wither'd moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 385 

High from the dais-throne — were parch'd with dust, 
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mixt with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the King ; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, 390 

From spur to plume a star of tournament. 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go ? 395 

Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes ? 
For now I see the true old times are dead. 
When every morning brought a noble chance. 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 439 

And every chance brought out a noble knight. 

Such times have been not since the light that led 400 

The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 

But now the whole Round Table is dissolved 

Which was an image of the mighty world, 

And I, the last, go forth companionless, 

And the days darken round me, and the years, 405 

Among new men, strange faces, other minds." 

And slowly answer 'd Arthur from the barge : 
" The old order changeth, yielding place to new. 
And God fulfils himself in many ways. 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 410 

Comfort thyself : what comfort is in me ? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May He within himself make pure ! but thou. 
If thou shouldst never see my face again. 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 415 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain. 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 420 

Both for themselves and those who call them friend ? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 425 

For all my mind is clouded with a doubt — 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns 430 

And bowery hollows crown 'd with summer sea, 
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." 

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan 



440 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 435 

Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 

With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 

Revolving many memories, till the hull 

Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, , 

And on the mere the wailing died away. 440 

But when that moan had past for evermore, 
The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn 
Amazed him, and he groan'd, " The King is gone." 
And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme, 
" From the great deep to the great deep he goes." 445 

Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly clomb 
The last hard footstep of that iron crag ; 
Thence mark'd the black hull moving yet, and cried, 
" He passes to be King among the dead, 
And after healing of his grievous wound 450 

He comes again ; but — if he come no more — 
O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat. 
Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three whereat we gazed 
On that high day, when, clothed with living light. 
They stood before his throne in silence, friends 455 

Of Arthur, who should help him at his need ? " 

Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, but faint 
As from beyond the limit of the world. 
Like the last echo born of a great cry, 

Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice 460 

Around a king returning from his wars. 

Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb 
Ev'n to the highest he could climb, and saw. 
Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand. 
Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King, 465 

Down that long water opening on the deep 
Somewhere far ofif, pass on and on, and go 
From less to less and vanish into light. 
And the new sun rose bringing the new year. 



ENGLISH POETRY 



NOTES 



[Abbreviations: Diet, (any unabridged dictionary, such as the Cetttury, 
the Iitternatioiial, or the Standard); CI. D. (any good dictionary of classical 
mythology) ; CI. M. (Gayley's Classic Myths in English Literature. Ginn 
& Company.)] 

CHAUCER 

THE PROLOGUE TO THE CANTERBURY TALES 

The Canterbury Tales were written probably during the last twelve or fif- 
teen years of Chaucer's life, i.e. between 1385 and 1400. It is impossible 
to conjecture the order in which they were written, or to make any definite 
guess as to just when the Prologue was composed. Though the Prologue un- 
doubtedly appeared at a later date than some of the Tales, it is measurably • 
Certain that this date was not later than 1390. This would place it nearly one 
hundred years before the invention of the printing-press ; over one hundred 
years before the discovery of America; nearly two hundred and fifty years 
before the time of Milton's earliest poems. Owing to the remote period of 
this composition, the student will naturally find certain difficulties which he 
does not meet in poetry of a later date. He will see constant allusion to 
beliefs and experiences, very real in Chaucer's time, but utterly foreign to the 
modern world. Perhaps in no way so well as by the study of this Prologue 
can we to-day enter into the life of the England of five hundred years ago. 
We make the acquaintance of a language which, in grammatical construction, 
in peculiarity of phrase, in form and meaning of word, transports us from the 
present to an antique world. If we would gain anything like the proper ap- 
preciation of Chaucer's verse, we must learn to read it aloud, pronouncing it 
as nearly as possible as he himself would have pronounced it. The following 
are a few rules which will apply to a solution of most of the difficulties to be 
met in mastering this pronunciation : — 

I. Vowels were sounded in Chaucer's time very nearly as in Latin : a long 
or aa, like a in father ; a short, like a in what (never like a in cat) ; e long 
or ee, sometimes like e in there and sometimes like a m fate ; e short, like e in 
met ; i (or y) long or ii, like i in machine ; i (or y) short, like i in pin ; 6 long 
or 00, like in old (OO never like 00 in pool); 8 short, like in obey (never 

441 



442 NOTES TO CHAUCER 

like in not) ; u long, like the French u or German it ; u short, like u in put 
(never like u in but). Final e is sounded like a in Cuba, and is generally 
pronounced in Chaucer, save when it is followed by a word beginning with a 
vowel or the aspirate h. This fact must v^vei' be lost sight of in reading. 
Indeed, as a general rule, there are in Chaucer as many syllables to be pro- 
nounced as there are vowels or diphthongs. 

2. Diphthongs, or double vowels, were sounded as follows : ai and ay, like 
ay in gay, according to some editors; but, more probably, nearly like / in 
pine; ei and ey, like ai, — that is, like i in pine. (Some editors sound it 
like e in there, and still others like ei in veil ; but both of these pronunciations 
are questionable); au and aw, like oiv in ho'v ; oi and oy, like oy in boy ; ou 
and OW, like oo in pool — sometimes like long o gliding into oo (but never as in 
house or how). 

3. Consonants were sounded as in modern English, except as follows : 
C, hard like h, except before e and i, and like s, before e and i (never like sh 
as in ocean); f, generally like ff \t\ off rather than y in of; g, hard as 'v[i go, 
except before e and /, and soft as in gin before e and i ; gh, nearly like ch in 
the German word audi ; gn, like n, the vowel preceding being pronounced 
long ; ng, like ng in finger — possibly sometimes like ng in singing (though 
Skeat does not admit this pronunciation) ; r, always rolled or trilled with the 
tip of the tongue ; s final, generally like 55 in hiss ; s, between two vowels in 
the middle of a word, generally like s in his (s is never pronounced like sh or 
zh) ; t (never like sh as in nation); Z (never like zh as in azure). 

These are practically all the rules which need be observed by the student; 
for further aid he must depend on the oral instruction of the teacher. The 
latter may indefinitely add to these simple rules by choosing from those given 
in the various editions of Chaucer. Though no one at the present time can 
more than approximately reach the exact pronunciation of the poet, still there 
will be found a charm in even this approximation which will amply justify the 
time spent upon it. 

As a further aid to the student, we have indicated those accentuations of 
words (mostly of Latin and of Norman- French origin) which differ from present 
usage; and have italicized the vowels of those syllables which are not pro- 
nounced, the assumption being that, as in Latin, there is otherwise a syllable 
to be sounded for every vowel or diphthong. 

The Prologue rhymes in couplets. Many of the couplets are "run-on"; 
i.e. the thought runs on from one couplet to another instead of being brought 
to a close a; the end of the couplet, as is generally the case in Pope and other 
eighteenth-century poets who employ this form of verse (see Pope's Rape of 
the Lock, in this book). The metre is iambic pentameter, a large proportion 
of the lines, however, being hypercatalectic. See Introduction to this book, 
pp. Iv, Ixiv, Ixviii. A knowledge of the metre will not infrequently aid the 
student in pronouncing difficult lines. Some lines are acephalous, i.e. lack- 
ing in the first unaccented syllable. See 11. 170, 247, 294, 384, 391, and 
Introduction, as above. 



THE PROLOGUE 443 

In the following notes, peculiarities of grammatical inflection, and other 
frequently recurring peculiarities, will be noted the first three times they 
occur. 

1-18. I. Whan that. The use of //^a/, after such connectives as 7e'//^«, z/J 
because, after, and the like, continued common until after the time of Shake- 
speare, shoures. Plurals end generally in es ; sometimes in s. Observe how 
the original spelling of the poet's words seems to carry us back in feeling to 
his time and environment. As Mr. Ingraham says in his edition of the Pro- 
logue, " I see and hear in shoures drops of water falling from a darkened sky 
on field and river; while showers are predicted in the newspapers by those 
who know of the wind whence it cometh and whither it goeth." sote, sweet. 
For its more modern form, see ' swete,' 1. 5. 2. perced to the rote, pierced 
to the root. The final e here is a sign of the dative. 3-4. And bathed . . . 
flour. "And bathed every vein (of the tree or herb) in such ('swich ') mois- 
ture, by means of which quickening power, or vital energy ('vertu'), the 
flower is generated." (Skeat.) 5. Zephirus. For the gentle west wind, see 
CI. D. or CI. M. p. 72. eek, also. 6. Inspired, in its radical sense (from 
Lat. in + spiro). holt, wood. 7. croppes, shoots, tree-tops. For form of 
plural see note on 'shoures,' 1. i. yonge. The e is used when the definite 
article precedes. 7-8. yonge sonne . . . y-ronne. The sun on crossing 
the equator at the March equinox (March 12, old style) entered Aries, or the 
Ram, the first sign of the Zodiac, out of which it passed on April 11, into 
Taurus, or the Bull. Hence it is the 'young sun,' as it has passed through 
only the first sign of the Zodiac, the Ram. The April sun has, moreover, 
completed that half-course which falls in the Ram {i.e. the last portion of 
the Ram which extended to April li). From the mention of a definite date 
in a later part of the poem, we know that the sun had also run five days 
into the sign of the Bull, i.e. that it was now the i6th of April: see picture 
of Zodiac in unabridged dictionary. 8. y-ronne. For i or j as a sign of the 
past participle, see note on 'y-cleaped,' LAlleg. (12). 9. smale fowles, little 
birds. Most adjectives, especially monosyllables, end in e when they modify 
plural nouns. 9. maken, and 10. slepen. Plural verbs end generally in e, 
sometimes in en. ye, eye. 11. So . . . corages. Nature so spurs them on 
in their hearts (' corages,' from Lat. cor'). Yor final es in 'corages,' see note 
on 'shoures,' 1. i, and 'croppes,' 1. 7. Note the plural possessive (genitive) 
hir, and the plural objective (accusative) hem. 12. longen. For plural 
verb form, see note on ' maken' and 'slepen,' 11. 9, 10. goon. The infinitive 
ends generally in e, sometimes in en or n. 13. palmers, originally pilgrims 
who had gone to the Holy Land and had brought back a palm-branch, after- 
ward borne as a sign of their journey. Later, as in Chaucer, the word seems 
to mean any pilgrim to foreign countries, who, renouncing home and property, 
spends his whole life in these wanderings, seken. For form of infinitive, see 
note on 'goon,' 1. 12. 14. feme halwes, distant holy ones, i.e. the shrines 
of saints. Cf. " All Hallow-e'en," All Saints' eve. couthe, known, sondry, 
various. 15. shires, county's. The possessive (genitive) singular of nouns 



444 NOTES TO CHAUCER 

usually ends in es. i6. Caunterbury: see map of England. In Kent, fifty 
miles southeast of London, wende, go, as in the phrase " to wend one's 
way." 17. blisful, blessed, martir. Thomas a Becket, Archbishop of Can- 
terbury, murdered at the altar, in 1 170, by four minions of Henry II, was 
canonized in 11 73. seke, seek. This is the usual form of the infinitive: see 
note on 'goon,' 1. 12. 18. hem: see note on 'hem,' 1. 11. holpen, helped. 
The past participle of strong verbs ends in en or e. seke, sick. 

19-34. 19. Bifel, it happened, on a, one. 20. Tabard : an inn in 
Southwark (now a part of London). The name was derived from the sign of 
the inn, a tabard, or kind of sleeveless coat. 21. wenden : see note on 
* goon,' 1. 12, and 'seken,' 1. 13. 22. corage : seel. 11. 23. hostelrye, inn. 
Look up derivation of /^o/(?/,/zojr/?Vrt/, /^o.f/'. 24. Wei, fully. 25. by aventure, 
by chance, y-falle : see note on 1. 8. 27. wolden, wished : see note on 
' maken ' and ' seken,' 11. 9 and 10, and 'longen,' 1. 12. ryde, an infmitive 
modifying 'wolden.' 29. esed atte beste, entertained in the best manner. 
31. So, to such effect, hem: see note on 'hem,' 11. 11 and 18. everichon, 
every-each-one, i.e. every single one. 32. hir : see note on *hir,' 1. 11. 
anon, immediately. 33. made forward (A.-S. fore-iveard, fore-ward, pre- 
caution), made an agreement. 34. as, where. Never in its present sense. 
It is generally preceded by ther. I yow devyse, I am telling you about, i.e. 
Canterbury. 

35-42. 35. natheles, nevertheless. 36. pace, proceed. 37. Me think- 
eth: see note on Comns (482). acordaunt, according. 39. me: dative 
after the impersonal verb. 40. whiche, what kind of men. 41. eek: cf. 

1-5- 

43-78. 45. ryden out, to go on his knightly adventures. 46. fredom, 
liberality. 47. lordes, probably the king. For the ending, see note on 
'shires,' 1. 15. werre (dative), war; perhaps in France. 48. ther-to, besides. 
ferre, comparative of fe)-, far. 49. hethenesse, heathendom. Cf. Christen- 
dom. 51. Alisaundre, Alexandria in Egypt, won from the Mohammedans in 
1365. 52. the bord bigonne, sat at the head of the table (at state dinners as 
a mark of the honor due to him). 53. Aboven alle naciouns in Pruce, 
above the representatives of all nations in Prussia. 54. Lettow, Lithuania, 
now divided between Russia and Prussia, reysed, made military expeditions. 
Ruce, Russia. 56. Gernade, Granada, in southern Spain, eek : (/ 11. 5 
and 41. 57. Algezir, Algeciras, a city on the south coast of Granada. The 
knight had been at this siege, in 1344. Skeat suggests that the year of this 
story is 1386. From this we may estimate the knight's age. riden: see note 
on 1. 45. Belmarye, Benmarin, a Moorish kingdom in northern Africa. 
58. Lyeys, Ayas in Armenia, won from the Turks in 1367. Satalye, Adalia 
on the south coast of Asia Minor, also taken from the Turks in 1362. Ob- 
serve that these are all Christian victories over the Mohammedans. 59. Grete 
See, the eastern Mediterranean. 60. aryve, disembarkation (arrival) of 
troops. 61. mortal, deadly (from Lat. mors, death). 62. Tramissene, 
Tremessen, a Moorish kingdom in northern Africa. 63. In listes thryes. 



THE PROLOGUE 445 

He had fought for his religion three times, in lists or personal combats, hav- 
ing been challenged, no doubt, by some Mohammedan knight, ay, always. 
64. ilke, same. 65. Somtyme, once upon a time. Palatye, Palathia, in 
Anatolia (Asia Minor). 66. Ageyn another hethen in Turkye. He had 
fought with the lord of Palathia, a Christian knight, against still another 
heathen in Turkey. 67. sovereyn prys, the greatest reputation. 68. thogh 
that: see note on 'whan that,' 1. i. worthy . . . wys. Though he was 
a bold and distinguished man (' worthy '), he was nevertheless prudent ('wys '). 
70. vileinye, ungentlemanly speech, showing low taste or breeding, never, 
no, ne, no. Explain the force of these double negatives, remembering that 
even as late as Shakespeare they did not constitute an affirmative. 71. no 
maner wight, no man of any kind. 72. verray, very, parfit, perfect, 
gentil {Y^'A.I. gens), of high birth and breeding. 73. array, dress and equip- 
ment. 74. hors, evidently plural, as indicated by the number of the verb 
and of the adjective. Some neuter nouns have the same form in both num- 
bers, gode. For the plural form of the adjective, see note on 1. 9, he, i.e. the 
Knight, gay, gayly dressed. 75. fustian : see Diet, gipoun, a short, close- 
fitting coat, generally worn under armor. 76. bismotered, soiled or stained 
as with blood or rust, with his habergeoun, from his coat of mail (A.-S. 
heah-beorgan, neck-protector). 77. y-come : see note on 11. 8 and 25. 
viage, journey or travels. 78. wente for to doon, on returning, immediately 
started out to ' do ' or go on the pilgrimage which he had vowed to make. 

79-100. The Squyer. 80. lovyere, a lover, as in romances of chivalry. 
bacheler, aspirant for knighthood. Cf. the phrase " bachelor of Arts," and 
look up derivation. 81. lokkes cruUe, locks curled, presse, curhng tongs, 
or some fourteenth-century substitute for them. 82. yeer. For number, see 
note on 1. 74. 83. evene, proper, well proportioned. 84. deliver, active. 
85. chivachye, a cavalry raid (Fr. cheval ; Lat. cahalhis, horse). 86. Flaun- 
dres, Flanders, a province now comprising portions of northern France 
and southern Belgium and Holland. Artoys, Picardye, Artois, Picardy, 
French provinces. 87. litel space, limited time or opportunity. 88. lady, 
some possessives (genitives) are uninflected. 89. Embrouded, embroidered. 
91. fl03rtinge, probably playing the flute, though some suggest "whistling." 

95. coude endjrte, knew how to (from A.-S. cunnan, to know) compose. 

96. Juste, tilt or joust at tournaments. purtreye, portray, i.e. draw. 

97. nightertale, night-time. 99. servisable, willing to be of service. 
100. carf biforn, carved in front of, or for. 

101-117. The Yeman. loi. he. Does this refer to the Knight or to 
the Squyer? na-mo : cf. ' na-more,' 1. 98. 102. him liste, it pleased him 
to. ryde. For the infinitive ending, see note on 1. 12. 104. A sheef of 
pecok-arwes, a sheaf of arrows with peacock's feathers, much liked because 
of their gay appearance. 106. dresse his takel yemanly: care for his 
arrows in a manner befitting a yeoman. 107. drouped noght with fetheres 
lowe. He took such pains with his ' takel ' that the feathers did not droop 
low, or get pressed out of shape. 109. not-heed, a head cropped, and like 



446 NOTES TO CHAUCER 

a nut. no. COude, knew. in. bracer, a leather guard for the arm. 
112. bokeler, a buckler, or small shield. 114. Harneised wel : equipped 
well, as regards hilt, sheath, and the like. 115. Cristofre, an image of St. 
Christopher worn as a brooch or charm against danger. (From a Greek word 
meaning the bearer of Christ : see back of Webster's Diet., or Century Diet. 
Proper A^iines.') shene, bright or shining. 116. bawdrik, a broad belt 
worn over one shoulder and under the opposite arm ; a baldric. 117. forster, 
a forester or huntsman, soothly, truly. 

118-164. The Prioresse. 119. coy, quiet. 120. seynt Loy, St. 
Eligius or St. Eloi, a humble saint, who lived at the beginning of the seventh 
century. There have been many conjectures as to why the prioress invokes 
this particular saint. Some think it to mean that she swore not at all, since 
St. Eligius is said to have once refused to take an oath ; or again, perhaps, 
she came from the district of St. Loye's in Bedford. 121. cleped : see note 
ov\. EAlleg. {\z). 123. Entuned, intoned, or chanted, semely, becomingly. 
124. fetisly, properly, elegantly. 125. scole of Stratford-atte-Bowe : the 
dialect of French which had grown up in England, or Anglo-French, which she 
had doubtless learned from the Benedictine nuns of Stratford-at-Bow, near 
London. 127. mete, food or meals. 129. sauce, broth or gravy. 130. carie, 
carry to her mouth, kepe, take care. 131. fiUe, should fall. 132. curteisye, 
court manners, ful moche hir lest. Her delight or pleasure ('lest') was 
very much, etc. 134. ferthing, farthing or a fourth, hence a very small por- 
tion or morsel. 136. mete: cf. 1. 127. raughte, reached. 137. sikerly, 
securely, i.e. certainly. disport, readiness to be entertained or amused. 
139. peyned hir, slie took pains, countrefete chere, imitate the appearance 
or manner. 140. to been estatlich of manere, to be stately of manners 
or bearing. 141. digne (from Lat. dignns), worthy, reverence, respect or 
esteem. 142. conscience, sensitiveness. 144. if that : see note on ' whan 
that,' 1. I. 145. deed or bledde, dead or were bleeding. 146. houndes, 
ilogs, {c/.Gqx. kuiid). 147. wastel, cake. 148. oon, one. hem: cf.\.i\. 
149. men, one, anybody {cf. Ger. man), smoot it with a yerde smerte, 
struck it smartly ('smerte') with a stick ('yerde'). 150. conscience: cf. 
1. 142. 151. semely: cf. 1. 123. wimpel, a covering for the neck, or for 
the neck and chin, worn by nuns. pinched, plaited. 152. tretys, well 
proportioned, eyen, eyes. .Some few plurals end in en. Cf. oxen. 
153. ther-to: see note on 1. 48. reed, red. 154. siksrly: see 1. 137. 
156. hardily, same as 'sikerly,' 1. 154. 157. fetis, neat. Cf. 1. 124. war, 
aware. 159. peire, pair or set. gauded al with grene, having every 
eleventh bead a large green gaud, or gaudy, — the bead in the rosary at which 
the "Paternoster" is recited. 160. shene: see 1. 115. 161. crowned A. 
The brooch which the prioress wore appears to have been a locket, rather 
than a clasp pin, and to have had the form of a capital A surmounted by a 
crown. 162. Amor vincit omnia, the well-known quotation from Virgil. 
163-164. Another nonne . . . Preestes three. Take note that the second 
nun, or chaplain of the priore.ss, and 'the three attendant priests, bring the 



THE PROLOGUE 447 

number of characters mentioned thus far to eight. Chaucer's ' Wei nine and 
twenty,' 1. 24, are really thirty, exclusive of the poet himself and Harry Bailey, 
the host of the Tabard. 

165-207. The Monk. 165. a f air for the maistrye, a man who seerned 
likely to excel, or to receive promotion. 166. out-rydere, the officer of a 
monastery whose business it was to look after the outlying manors belonging 
to the order, venerye, hunting. 168. deyntee (Lat. dignilas), valuable. 
170. Ginglen, jingling of the bells on the bridle. 172. as : see note on 1. 34. 
keper of the celle, superior of the monastery. 173. reule : in apposition 
with it in the next line, seint Maure and seint Beneit. Benedict, the 
founder of the Benedictine order in the sixth century, and Maure, his disciple, 
laid down the oldest forms of monastic discipline in the church. som-del 
streit, somewhat strict, narrow. 175. ilke, same, olde thinges pace, old 
things pass by. 176. And heeld after the newe world the space, "held 
his course in conformity with the new order of things." (.Skeat.) 177. yaf 
nat of, gave not for. pulled hen, a plucked hen — the value of which is 
assumed to be very small. 179. recchelees, heedless of the regulations of 
church discipline. 180. waterlees, out of water. 181. this is . . . cloistre. 
This line is evidently in explanation of 1. 179. 182. thilke, that same. 
183. And I seyde, etc. Observe how the poet appears to draw out the 
monk by pretending to agree with his views. 184. What, why. wood, mad, 
crazy. 185. to poure, by poring. 186. swinken, toil. 187. As Austin 
bit, as St. Augustine bids. St. Augustine (fourth century), as well as St. 
Benedict (1. 173;, taught that monks should be diligent, not only in study, 
but also in manual labor. 188. Lat . . . reserved, let St. Augustine keep 
his work to himself. 189. pricasour, hard rider. 190. f owel : cf. 1. 9. 
191. Of priking, in spurring; hard riding. 192. lust, desire or pleasure. 
193. seigh, saw. purfiled, edged or fringed. 194. grys, a gray fur, very 
costly. 198. balled, bald. 199. anoint, anointed. 200. in good point 
(Fr. en bon point, — embonpoint), in good condition, meaning about the 
same as ' full fat.' 201. eyen: see note on 1. 152. stepe, bright. 202. That 
stemed as a forneys of a leed, that glowed as a furnace under a caldron (of 
lead). 203. His botes souple, his boots soft and phable. greet estat, 
fine condition. 205. for-pyned goost, ghost wasted away by torment. 
207. berye. Observe how portraits of the characters are linked together by 
the division of the couplet between them. Cf. 26<),2-jO ; 387,388; 541,542. 

208-269. The Frere. 208. wantown, lively. 209. limitour, a mendi- 
cant friar, who had a definite limit assigned to him in which he might solicit 
alms. solempne (Lat. solemnis), pompous or self-satisfied. 210. ordres 
foure. The four orders of the mendicant friars were the Dominicans, the 
Franciscans, the Carmelites, and the Augustinians. can, knows. 211. dal- 
iaunce and fair langage, entertaining and flattering talk. 214. post, as we 
now say " a pillar of the church." 216. frankeleyn, a wealthy landholder; a 
sort of country squire, over-al, everywliere. 217. worthy: see note on 
1. 459. 220. licentiat, a friar licensed by the pope to hear confessions, 



448 NOTES TO CHAUCER 

grant absolution, or administer penance — in all cases independently of the 
local curate or parish priest, whose powers were more restricted. Cf. 1. 219. 
223. yeve (same as 'yive,' 1. 225), give. 224. as: see note on 1. 34. wiste 
to han, knew (' wiste ') that he would gain, pitaunce, literally, mess of 
victuals. 225-232. For . . . freres: cf. 11. 184-188. In both passages 
Chaucer with sly humor and pretended seriousness reflects the process by 
which his characters reason. 227. yaf, past tense of ' yeve ' or ' yive.' he 
dorste make avaunt, he (the friar) dares make his boast. 230. may, can. 
him sore smerte, though it pains him sorely. 232. Men moot : one ought 
to. Yox 'men,' see note on 1. 149. 233. His tipet was ay farsed, his cape 
was always stuffed. 234. yeven: see note on 'goon,' 1. 12. 236. rote, 
some kind of a stringed instrument, perhaps a sort of guitar. 237. Of . . . 
prys, i.e. in the singing of ballads he utterly (or absolutely) bore away 
(or took) the prize. 238. His nekke whyt, etc. Notice Chaucer's naivete. 
He is restricted by no set rules of poetic art. Whether consciously or uncon- 
sciously, he seems to pass, in his descriptions, from one point to another, with 
a child's simple delight at finding new things to see. Thus, in successive lines, 
his ' frere ' sings ballads, has a white neck, is athletic, fond of conviviality, 
self-seeking. 241. everich: see note on ' everichon,' 1. 31. hostiler, the 
keeper of a ' hostelrye ' : cf.\. 23. tappestere, barmaid. The masculine form 
was tapster, beggestere (242) is likewise the feminine of beggar. 242. Bet, 
better (adv.). Xazait, leper (from Lazarus). 243. swich : cf. 1. 3. 244. as 
by his facultee, considering his abilities. 245. seke : (/i 1. 18. 246. honest, 
seemly or liecoming. avaunce, advance one. 247. poraille, poor people. 
249. over-al : see 1. 216. as: see note on 1. 34. 251. vertuous, efficient 
in his undertakings. 253. sho, shoe. 254. In principio, from John I, i. 
In principio erat verbum, evidently a part of his religious ministrations; or, 
perhaps, to impress his hearer with his knowledge of Latin. 255. ferthing: 
see 1. 134. 256. purchas, the profits of his begging. rente, income. 
257. And . . . whelpe, " And he could romp about exactly as if he were a 
puppy dog." (Skeat. ) 258. love-dayes : days appointed for settling dis- 
putes out of court and by an umpire — in this case the friar. 260. cope, a 
cloak worn by priests. 262. semi-cope, a short ' cope,' or cape. 263. presse, 
mould. 264. lipsed, for his wantownesse, lisped in affectation. 269. cleped : 
cf. 1. 121. 

270-284. The Marchant. 271. mottelee, motley, a many-colored suit. 
272. Flaundrish, Flemish. 273. fetisly: cf. 1. 124. 274. resons, opinions. 
solempnely : see ' solempne,' 1. 209. 275. Souninge . . . winning, always 
harping on his increasing profits. 276. were kept, i.e. were guarded, kept 
open, for any thing, at any cost. 277. Middelburgh, a port on an island 
in the Netherlands. Orewelle, the former name of an English port exactly 
opposite Middelburg. The merchants' ships travelled in the pirate-infested 
waters between these two ports. 278. Wei . . . selle. He knew how to 
sell to advantage in various money markets the foreign coins {sheeld, a French 
coin) which he had accumulated in the course of his business. 279. well 



THE PROLOGUE 449 

his wit bisette, used his wits to advantage. 280. wiste : cf. 1. 224. wight, 
person: cf. 1. 71. 281. estatly, discreet, governaunce, the management of 
his business. 282. chevisaunce, arrangements for l:)orro\ving. 284. noot, 
know not. 

285-308. 285. clerk. This clerk (scholar) of Oxford was an aspirant 
for the priesthood. In Chaucer's time the word clerk meant simply' scholar. 
Look up its derivation and trace its history to its present meaning. Oxen- 
ford. The form of the word suggests its possible derivation. For another 
conjecture, see note on Lycidas, 1. 103. 286. y-go, gone. 288. he, the 
scholar. I undertake, I venture to say. 289. ther-to : cf. 11. 48, 153. 
290. overest courtepy, uppermost short cloak. 291. benefice: see Diet. 
under the definition which has to do with the church. 292. of&ce. A secular 
calling, such as offered by medicine or law, was often taken up for a time by 
the clergy of the Middle Ages. 293. For him was lever have, he would 
liefer (more gladly) have. 296. fithel or gay sautrye, fiddle or gay psaltery. 
297. al be, although : cf. modern albeit, philosophre, Chaucer is here 
making a play on the word. Other than the meaning as already applied to 
the clerk is the meaning alchemist — one who has "found the philosopher's 
stone." This our Oxford scholar was not, Chaucer says, for, if he could make 
gold, 1. 298 would not be true. 299. hente, get. 302. hem: cf. 1. 11. 
scoleye, attend school. 303. cure, thought or care (from Lat. cura). 
304. 0, one. 305. in forme and reverence, in precise and dignified manner. 
306. hy sentence, lofty significance. 307. Souninge in, tending to : cf.\. 275. 

309-330. The Sergeant of the Lawe. 309. war, wary, wys : cf. 1. 68, 
310. parvys, a church porch, probably of St. Paul's, where, it is said, lawyers 
used to meet for consultation. 312. reverence, dignity. 314. Justyce in 
assyse, a judge sent into the country to hold court (assizes). 315. patente, 
letters patent, or the official document of the king, pleyn commissioun 
(Lat. plenus), full authority. 318. purchasour, conveyancer (see Diet.). 
no-wher noon : see note on 1. 70. Observe that ' noon ' does not mean knojun. 
319. fee simple, the most absolute form of ownership or possession of landed 
property, in effect. This seems to mean that the law sergeant could so 
cleverly, in his conveyancing, remove, or seem to remove, defects in title and 
other limitations of absolute ownership, that the deed, as he would hand it over, 
would practically seem to give possession in 'fee simple'; and finally (320) 
that the conveyance could not be invalidated ('infect'). 321-322. No-wher 
. . . was. Note how the lawyer delights to " bustle around " to indicate how 
busy a man he is. 323. In termes, in the exact words, verbatim, caas, 
cases ; for number, see note on 1. 74. domes, decisions. 324. William, 
the Conqueror, who reigned from 1066 to 1087. 325. endj^te : cf. 1. 95. 
make a thing, i.e. draw up a legal document. 326. pinche at, i e. find fault 
with. 327. coude: see 1. 95. 328. medlee cote, a coat of mixed color. 
329. Girt . . . smale, encircled by a girdle of silk, having upon it small 
ornaments or bars. 

331-360. The Frankeleyn: see note on 1. 216. 332. dayes-ye : f/. 'ye,' 



450 NOTES TO CHAUCER 

1. lo. This is the derivation of daisy. 333. COmplexioun, temperament, 
sangwyn, ardent or hopeful. Some prefer to interpret this line literally, 
making 'sangwyn' mean ruddy (from Lat. sanguis, blood). 334. by the 
morwe, in the morning. SOp, bread or cake dipped in some liquid. 335. delyt, 
pleasure, wone, habit, wont. 336-338. Epicurus . . . parfyt. He was a 
' son ' {i.e. true disciple) of Epicurus, a Greek philosopher (342-270 B.C.), who 
was of the opinion that pleasure was the sumvium bonnm. 340. Seint 
Julian, the patron saint of hospitality. 341. after oon, after one standard, 
i.e. the best. 342. envyned, stocked with wine, no-wher noon : see note 
onl.318. 343. bake: see note on'holpen,'l. 18. 345. It snewed, it abounded. 
347. After, in accordance with. 348. mete: see 1. 127. soper (supper), 
drink. 349. mewe, coop in which fowls were fattened. 350. breem, bream 
(see DicL). luce, pike, stewe, a small pond in which tish were kept to 
supply the table. 351. Wo was, as we now say, " Woe be to." but-if, 
unless, sauce: cf. 1. 129. 352. Poynaunt, pungent or biting, gere, 
utensils. 353. table dormant. Permanent tables on legs were now supplant- 
ing boards laid across trestles, which had been previously used. The Franke- 
leyn had such a table and kept it set, thus showing his hospitable nature. 
355. sessiouns, sittings held by the justices of the peace, lord and sire, the 
presiding officer. 356. knight of the shire, representative of the county 
('shire') in parliament. 357. aulas, a short, two-edged dagger, gipser, a 
pouch or purse. 359. shirreve, shire reve, chief magistrate of the shire. Cf. 
word sheriff, countour, an auditor of accounts. Cf. the modern comptroller. 
360. vavasour, a sub-vassal, next in dignity to a baron. 

361-378. The Haberdassher, or dealer in small wares ; the Carpenter ; 
the Webbe, or weaver; the Dyere; the Tapicer, or upholsterer. They are 
all, evidently, men of ability and standing in the community, as well as lead- 
ing members of the various trade guilds to which they belong. 363. liveree, 
one livery; the distinctive badge of the trade association or fraternity of which 
these men were members. 365. hir gere apyked was, their dress was adorned. 
366. y-chaped, plated. 368. every-deal, every part. 369. fair burgeys, 
fit citizen. 370. To sitten . . . deys, to sit on a dais in a guild hall, i.e. to 
be the head of his guild. 371. Everich: <r/;i. 241. can, knows. 372. shaply, 
fit- 373- catel, property : cf the modern chattels and cattle (which in 
early ages formed a large part of a man's property), rente: see 1. 256. 
374. wel : see 1. 24. 375. elles, else, otherwise. 376. y-clept : see note on 
IJAlleg. (12). "madame," which title would belong to them if their hus- 
bands were aldermen. 377. And . . . bifore, and go before all the rest to 
vigils. A vigil was the watch kept on a festival eve, like that of St. John, 
when the people would meet in the church yard for revelry. The ladies of 
the gentry preceded the others, and had their mantles ostentatiously carried 
with them (' royalliche y-bore,' 1. 378) by their servants. 

379-387. The Cook. 379. for the nones, for the nonce, i.e. for then 
once, for that occasion. 380. mary-bones, marrow-bones. 381. poudre- 
marchant tart, a kind of tart flavoring powder, galingale, a sort of spice- 



THE PROLOGUE 45 I 

like root. 383. coude : see 1. 95. sethe, boil. 384. mortreux, kind of 
stew or thick soup. 385. greet harm, a pity. 386. shine, shin, mormal 
(Fr. mo7-tmal, Lat. niortiium inaliini, dead sore), cancer. 387. blank- 
manger, a kind of fricassee, made of fish or fowl, etc., with a white sauce. 
For suggestion on this line, see note on 1. 238. 

388-410. The Shipman. 388. woning, dwelling. 389. woot, know. 
Dertemouth, Dartmouth, an important port in Chaucer's time, in Devon- 
shire. 390. rouncy, farm horse, as he couthe, as best he could. Being 
a sailor he knew little of horses. 391. falding, a coarse cloth. 392. laas, 
lace or cord. 394. hote somer: perhaps any 'hot summer'; or, as some 
think, the especially hot seasons of 1351 or 1370. 395. good felawe, as we 
say " jolly good fellow." 396. draughte, cask, y-drawe, drawn, i.e. stolen. 
397. From Burdeux-ward, from-ward, i.e. from the direction of: cf. to-ward, 
originally also thus separated; also c/. 1. 793. whyl that : (/"' whan than,' 1. i. 
chapman: see note on Burns's Tarn 0' S/iau/er (i). sleep, a form of the 
past tense; also s/e/>/e. 398. Of nyce . . . keep, he was not troubled with 
conscientious scruples. 399. hyer hond, as we say, " upper hand." 400. By 
water . . . lond, threw them overboard to get home as best they might, as 
he would express it; really, to drown. 401. craft, skill. 402. bisydes, 
beside, or all around him. 403. herberwe, harbor, lodemenage, art of 
pilotage : cf. lode star. 404. Hulle, Hull in Yorkshire, England. Cartage, 
Carthage. 405. wys : see 1. 68. to undertake, in his undertakings. 
408. Gootlond, Gotland, an island in the Baltic. Finistere, Finisterre, a 
cape in western Spain. 409. cryke, a creek having a harbor. Britayne, 
Brittany. 410. y-cleped : c/. 1. 376. Maudelayne. It is interesting to know 
that there has been found this name of a ship, entered in 1386 among the 
Custom-house records of Dartmouth, still preserved. This may throw some 
light on the date at which the Prologue was composed. 

411-444. The Doctour. 411. Phisyk (413, 'phisik'), physic, medicine 
in general. 414. astronomye, astrology. In the Middle Ages the position 
of sun, moon, and planets, in relation to one another, was thought to have an 
important bearing on proper medical treatment. As these astronomical con- 
ditions changed from hour to hour, so must the treatment change with them. 
415-416. He kepte . . . magik nature!. By his knowledge of 'natural 
magic,' or the phenomena of nature, he kept the treatment of his patient 
from hour to hour in conformity with the conditions mentioned above. 
417-418. wel . . . pacient. He could, moreover, make waxen images and 
treat them instead of his patient. If the patient did not recover when the 
images were treated, it merely proved that they had not been made at the 
right time. Hence the doctor's art largely consisted in his ability to predict 
or choose (' fortunen ') the right (' ascendent ') moment, according to 
astrology, for treating the images. 420. hoot, cold, moiste, drye. These 
were, according to mediieval theories, the four humors, the proper propor- 
tions of which were essential to the health of the human body. Disease 
(' maladye ') lay in an excess or defect of some one of these humors, and was 



452 NOTES TO CHAUCER 

treated accordingly. 421. engendred : cf. 1. 4. 423. cause and rote (root) 
are nominative absolutes before the participle 'y-knowe': cf. ablative abso- 
lute in Latin. 424. bote, remedy. 426. letuaries, electuaries or syrups, 
as distinguished from drogges (drugs), powders, or dry medicines. 427- 
428. For ech . . . biginne. Each had long been serviceable to the other. 
The druggist recommends the physician ; the physician makes his patients 
patronize the druggist. 429. Esculapius, god of medicine, son of Apollo : 
see CI. D. or CI. M. pp. 72, 130. 430-434. Deiscorides . . . Gilbertyn. 
These are the authors of Greek, Arabian, Moorish, and English text-books on 
medicine used by physicians of the Middle Ages. Dioscorides, Rufus, and 
Galen vi'ere Greeks, about the second century; Hippocrates (' Ypocras') was 
a Greek of the fifth century. Haly, Serapion, Rhasis, Avicenna, Averroes, and 
Damascenus were Arabian physicians, living from the ninth to the twelfth 
century. Constantine was a Moor of the eleventh century. Bernard was a 
Frenchman of Chaucer's time. Gilbertine and Gatesden were Englishmen of 
the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, respectively. 439. sangwin and 
pers, red and sky-blue. 440. taffata and sendal, thin silks. 441. esy of 
dispence, economical. 442. pestilence. Skeat gives as dates of pestilence 
in England 1348, 1349, 1362, 1369, and 1376. The doctor had made money 
in these pestilences, and purposed to keep it. His outlay was only for Llie 
rich dress that his position demanded of him. 443-444. For . . . special. 
One of the most v/itty touches of the poem. Gold in some liquid form was 
considered a valuable medicine. Hence, with scientific enthusiasm (?), this 
doctor was collecting gold. Pronounce 'cordial' and 'special' as trisyllables. 
445-476. The Good Wyf of Bathe. 445. Good wyf, the mistress of a 
household — a woman of independent fortune, of bisyde, from the vicinity 
of. 446. som-del, somewhat, some deal : cf. the expression, a great deal. 
scathe, too bad. 447. haunt, skill. 448. Ypres and Gaunt. Ypres and 
Ghent, cities of Flanders, were noted for their cloth manufactories. 450. 
Offring. Gifts of alms or offerings were taken up by the giver and laid upon 
the altar. In taking these forward, worshippers were expected to observe the 
proper order of precedence. The Wife of Bathe, because of her position, 
was usually given first place, and was very angry at any one who might pre- 
sume to go before her. 453. coverchiefs, kerchiefs, or coverings for the 
head. (Fr. chef, from Lat. caput.) ground, texture. 454. ten pound. 
The ornaments upon these kerchiefs made them heavy. The words ' I dorste 
swere ' show that Chaucer is playfully exaggerating the weight. 457. streite, 
tightly, moiste, supple. 459. worthy. This word as used by Chaucer 
suggests both respectability and wealth : (/ 1. 217. 460. chirche-dore. In 
the Middle Ages the church porch was often the place of the marriage cere- 
mony. 461. Withouten other companye, besides other suitors. 462. as 
nouthe (now then), at present. The parenthetical expression is suggestive 
of Kipling's " But that's another story." 463. thryes, thrice. 465. Boloigne, 
Boulogne, to see an image of the Virgin, often visited by pilgrims. 466. 
Galice at seint Jame, Galicia, in northwestern Spain, where there was a 



THE PROLOGUE 453 

famous shrine of St. James. Coloigne, Cologne, the reputed burial-place of 
the three Wise Men of the East. 467. COude, knew : cf. use in 1. 95. 468. 
Gat-tothed, having the teeth far apart. The origin of 'gat ' is uncertain, _^(Z/, 
gate, and goat having all been suggested by different editors, soothly for to 
seye, to tell the truth. Note the poet's pity for her misfortune, and cf. 1. 446. 
469. amblere : ambler, an easy-going horse. 470. Y-wimpled : seel. 151, 
471. bokeler : see 1. 112. targe: see Diet. 6,T2.. foot-mantel. This 
seems to be a riding skirt of some kind, reaching to the feet. 474. carpe, 
talk or chat ; not in the present sense of finding fault. 475. Of remedyes, 
modifies 'carpe.' The relative which is understood after 'remedyes.' 476. 
COude . . . daunce, knew the old game: see 11. 460-461. 

477-528. The poure Persoun. One of the finest characters in English 
poetry : cf. the parson in Goldsmith's Deserted Village (137-192). 478. 
Persoun of a toun, country parson or parish priest. 480. clerk : see 1. 285. 
481. wolde, desired to. 482. parisshens, parishioners. 485. y-preved, 
proved, ofte sythes, ofttimes. 486. Full looth . . . t5rthes. He was 
very loath to excommunicate ('cursen') anybody for not paying his tithes. 
For ' tithes,' see Diet. 487. yeven : cf. 1. 234. out of doute, without 
doubt: cf Mei'chant of Venice, \, \ (21). 489. offring, the contributions he 
had received : cf 1. 450. substaunce, his income from his benefice. 490. han 
suffisaunce, have sufficient, or all he desired. 492. lafte nat, neglected not. 
for, on account of. 493. meschief, misfortune. 494. ferreste, farthest. 
much and lyte, great and small. 497. wroghte and taughte. He 
"practised what he preached." 498." gospel: see Matthew v. 19. tho, 
those. 499. figure (accented on last syllable), figure of speech. What fig- 
ure is it? Explain it. ther-to : see 1. 48. 502. lewed, ignorant, unedu- 
cated ; hence layman, since learning was largely confined to the clergy. 503. 
take keep, take heed, i.e. stop to think about it. 504. dirty, the rearling 
of Skeat's text. 507-511. He . . . withholde. It was a custom among 
many country priests to sublet their benefices at a profit to themselves; and 
then either to attach themselves to some religious brotherhood by which they 
might be supported and kept away from their duties ('withholde '), or to get 
a lucrative " job " in some London church (such as St. Paul's) at singing masses 
for the founders of the chantries. 508, 509. And leet (left), And ran. Sup- 
ply ' nat ' (not) with each verb. 510. chaunterye, chantry: see Diet. 513. 
wolf. F2xplain the figure. 516. despitous, oversevere, contemptuous, 
despiteful. 517. daungerous, domineering, cold, digne, haughty, repel- 
lent. 518. discreet and benigne, tactful and kind. 519. fairnesse, his 
own righteous (fair) life. 521. But, unless. 523. snibben (snub), rebuke, 
reprove, for the nones, for the nonce, as the occasion demanded. See note 
on 1. 379. 524. trowe, trow : see Diet. 525. wayted after, expected, 
looked iox fi.e. from other people). 526. Ne . . . conscience, he did not 
set up for himself a conscience, ever calling attention to its own holiness, i.e. 
did not wrap himself up in a cloak of sanctity. 

529-541. The Plowman. 529. Plowman, a poor farmer. No one 



454 NOTES TO CHAUCER 

who reads the description of this humble but pure-souled man and of his 
brother, ' the poure Persoun,' can for a moment believe that Chaucer was irre- 
ligious or a scoffer at religion. It is the personal selfishness and self-indul- 
gence of the monk, the friar, the summoner, and the pardoner which he is 
satirizing, rather than the religion of which they were unworthy representa- 
tives. (tcZ/o) was his brother. This relationship is interesting as showing 
the frequently humble origin of the secular priesthood of Chaucer's time. 
530. That hadde . . . fother, who had drawn (' y-lad ') many a cart-load 
(' fother ') of manure. 531. swinker, laborer : see 'swinken,'l. 186. 534. 
thogh him gamed or smerte. Some take this to mean simply " in joy or 
woe"; others, "though his piety advanced or retarded his worldly interests." 
Which seems the more plausible interpretation ? 533-535. God loved . . . 
him-selve : see Mark xii. 33. 536. ther-to : see 1. 48. dyke, make 
ditches, delve : see Diet. 537. wight : see Did. 539. tythes : cf. 1. 486. 
540. swink: cf. 1. 188. catel: see 1. 373. 541. tabard: see 1. 20. mere. 
To ride upon a mare was not considered dignified, at least for people of fashion. 
For the incomplete couplet, see note on 1. 207. 

542-544. In these lines the poet sums up the remaining characters. 542. 
Reve. The reve {A.-S. getr/a, an officer) was a kind of private bailiff or 
steward of some nobleman, and overseer of his estate. Millere. The miller 
was a characteristic figure of the day, when each man took his own grist of 
grain to the mill to be ground into the flour needed in the household. He is 
a sort of comic character in early literature — a typical rascal. 543. Som- 
nour. A summoner, or apparitor, was the messenger or officer who served 
the legal papers summoning delinquents to appear before the ecclesiastical 
courts. Pardoner, a seller of indulgences, or " absolution from the censure 
and public penance of the church." (Webster's Did.) 544. Maunciple. 
The steward or caterer on whom devolves the task of purchasing provisions 
for a college, an inn of court, etc.: see Inns of Court in Die/, na-mo: c/. 11. 
98 and loi. 

545-566. The Miller: see note on 1. 542. 545. carl, fellow: see churl 
in Die/, for the nones : see 11. 379 and 523. The phrase seems here a mere 
expletive, with no particular meaning ; such a phrase as " for this gear " 
found frequently in Shakespeare. 547. proved wel, was easily proved true. 
over-al : see 1. 216. 548. ram, a common prize in wrestling matches. 549. 
a thikke knarre, a thick-set fellow. 550. nolde (ne-wolde), not be willing 
to. of, off. harre, (its) hinges. 551. at a renning. This feat seems rather 
incredible, considering that the doors of that time were decidedly substantial 
affairs. 554. cop right, very top. 557. nose-thirles (nose-drills), nostrils. 
558. bokeler: cf. 1. 112. 559. forneys, furnace. 560. jangler, a- babbler 
or idle talker, goliardeys, a buffoon, a teller of low stories. 561. that, 
the subject of his babbling, harlotryes, coarse or ribald jests. 562. tollen 
thryes. When the miller received the grain for grinding he was accustomed 
to take four or five per cent of it, as a toll. This miller would steal part of it, 
besides taking three times his proper toll. Remember that corn in England 



THE PROLOGUE 455 

is a generic name for wheat, barley, rye, etc. 563. thombe of gold. Two 
explanations have been suggested: (i) that his thumb, as it rubbed the meal 
against his finger, was so sensitive that he could detect its quality by touch; 
and (2) that the term is a joke based on the old proverb, — " Every honest 
miller has a golden thumb." pardee, originally an oath (Fr. par dieu); 
but later, simply indeed, truly. 566. And . . . towne. Thus the miller and 
his bagpipe conducted this odd cavalcade out of London. The bagpipe is 
not, as many think, a native Scottish instrument. 

567-586. The Maunciple : see note on 1. 544. 567. temple. The 
Inner Temple and Middle Temple are lawyers' quarters in London, built on 
the site of an old monastic establishment of the Knights Templars, called 
the Temple. 568. achatours, purchasers. 569. vitaille, food, victuals. 

570. by taille, on credit, the account being originally scored by cutting 
notches in a piece of wood : see derivation and history of tally in Diet. 

571. Algate, always, wayted, watched, achat, purchasing: cf. 'acha- 
tours,' 1. 56S. 572. ay biforn, always before or ahead of other purchasers. 
574. lewed : r/! 1. 502. wit, shrewdness, pace, surpass. 577. curious, skil- 
ful. 581. propre good, on his own private ('propre') means or property: 
(f. goods. 582. but: see 1. 521. wood: see 1. 184. 583. scarsly, eco- 
nomically, as him list desire, as it pleases him (the steward) to desire. 
584-585. And able . . . happe. Besides his duties as steward or trustee, 
the lawyer would be able to help in the law cases of a whole county. 
586. Sette hir aller cappe, set the caps of them all. This phrase may 
mean that the maunciple was sharp enough to overreach or cheat these 
learned masters ; or that he outdid them in being a better maunciple than 
any of them could have been, notwithstanding their qualifications to be stew- 
ards of a great estate. Which interpretation is preferable ? 

587-622. The Reve: see note on 1. 542. 587. colerik, choleric or 
irascible. 590. His top . . . biforn. The top of his head was docked in 
front ('biforn') after the fashion of a priest's tonsure. 592. Y-lyk, like. 
y-sene, to be seen, visible. 593. coude : see 1. 95. gerner, garner or 
granary. 594. auditour, auditor : see Diet, on him winne, get the bet- 
ter of him, i.e. by proving his accounts to be incorrect. 597. neet, 
cattle : cf. " neat's tongue," Merchant of Venice, I, I ; and " neat's leather," 
Julius CcBsar, I, i. dayerye, dairy. 598. hors : see note on 1. 74. stoor, 
farm stock. 600. And . . . rekening. According to contract he had been 
handing in his accounts. 602. Ther . . . arrerage. No one could show 
that he had embezzled any of his lord's money : cf. 1. 594. By twice sug- 
gesting this fact, and hinting at the extent of the reeve's private fortune 
(1. 609), the poet indicates his suspicions. 603. baiUif, perhaps an under- 
steward. herde, herdsman, hyne, hind, farm laborer. 604. sleighte, 
trickery. covyne, deceit. 605. adrad, afraid. 606. the death, proba- 
bly the pestilence : see note on 1. 442. woning, dwelling. 6og. astored 
prively, secretly stored or furnished with wealth. 610-611. His lord . . . 
good. He could craftily please his lord by giving or lending (' lene ') him 



456 NOTES TO CHAUCER 

of his own (the lord's) property which he (the reeve) had previously pur- 
loined. 612. thank, cote, hood, in return for this supposed favor. 613. mis- 
ter, trade. 614. wrighte, workmen. 615. stot, small horse or nag. 
616. pomely, dappled, highte, was called. 617. surcote, overcoat, pers : 
see 1. 439. 619. Northfolk, Norfolk, which: which and who were used 
interchangeably until after Shakespeare. 620. Bisyde : see 1. 445. 
621. Tukked . . . aboute : with a cord or girdle around his loose coat, 
like a friar. 622. And ever . . . route. Was this owing to his slow 
horse, or on account of unsociability ? 

623-668. The Somnour : see note on 1. 543. 624. cherubinnes face, 
cherubs being represented as fat, round, and rosy. 625. sawcefleem, red 
and pimpled, narwe, narrow. 626. And quyk . . . sparwe, the reading 
of Morris's text. 627. scalled browes : scabby, or scurvy black brows. 
piled berd, thin and straggling beard. 629. litarge, litharge or lead mon- 
oxide. 630. Boras, borax, ceruce : ceruse, a cosmetic containing white 
lead, oille of tartre, cream of tartar. 632. whelkes, pimples or blotches. 
633. knobbes, large pimples. 636. wood : f/I 11. 184 and 582. 639. termes, 
terms or Latin phrases, probably learned out of the legal papers which 
he served as summoner. 643. Can clepen " Watte," can call out Walter 
(as a parrot of to-day would cry "Poll"). 644. grope, test him in any 
other point. 645. philosophye, learning. 646. " Questio quid iuris," The 
question (is) what law ? This is one of the ' termes,' 1. 639. 647. gentil 
harlot, good-natured rascal, kinde, genial. 650. good felawe, a boon com- 
panion, wikked syn. The reading is from Morris's text. 651. atte fulle, 
entirely. 652. pulle. Secretly he could pluck a finch, an early EngHsh 
expression, meaning he could " cheat a greenhorn." 653. O-wher, any- 
where. 655. erchedeknes curs, excommunication from the Archdeacon : 
f/: ' cursen,' 1. 486. 656. But-if : see 1. 351. 657. For ... be. The Som- 
nour, who, from his official position, pretends to know all about such things, 
drops a hint to his friend, that the threat of excommunication and the ' helle ' 
to which it consigns one, is simply a means of extorting money from him 
against whom this is threatened. 659-662. But . . . significavit. Chaucer 
is undoubtedly sincere in his denunciation of this teaching of the Somnour. 
Every guilty man, he says, should dread for himself ('him') excommunica- 
tion, and the writ of excommunication (beginning " significavit nobis vener- 
abilis pater" etc.), for this ('curs') is just as surely death to the soul as 
absolution ('assoilling') is its salvation: see note on 1. 529. 662. war him, 
let him beware of. 663. In daunger, in his control or authority, at his 
owene gyse, after his own fashion. 664. younge girles, young people of 
either sex (a meaning now obsolete). 665. hir : see note on 1. 11. reed, 
adviser. 666. gerland. Skeat thinks this garland to be not an ivy wreath, 
as is generally explained, but a large hoop decorated with ribbons and roses. 
667. ale stake, also according to Skeat, is a stake projecting horizontally 
from the side of an inn, and is intended as a place on which the garland sjiall 
be hung. 668. A bokeler . . . cake. Observe how much suggestion, as to 



THE PROLOGUE 457 

the character of the Somnour, Chaucer gets into this one line. Also notice 
the absence of regular order of description here and elsewhere : see note on 
1. 238. 

669-714. 'Ihe Pardoner : see note on 1. 543. 670. Rouncival, the 
Hospital of the Blessed Mary of Rouncyvalle in London. 672. Com hider, 
love, to me. Evidently a popular song of the day, but rather oddly chosen 
for a churchman. Observe how ' Rome ' must have been pronounced to allow 
it to rhyme with ' to' me.' 673. stif burdoun, a deep bass accompaniment. 
676. stryke of flex, hank of flax. 677. ounces, strands. 679. colpons 
((-/ coupons), shreds, oon and oon, one by one. 681. trussed, packed. 682. 
Him thoughte : cf. methought, and see note on 1. 37. jet, fashion, style. 
683. Dischevelee. We can picture the thin, straight, wax -colored hair blow- 
ing in every direction. 685. vernicle : a small copy of the vernicle, or St. 
Veronica's handkerchief, preserved at St. Peter's. The pardoner had un- 
doubtedly secured this token on his recent visit to Rome : see Veronica in 
Diet. 687. Bret-ful, brimful. 691. his . . . bare. This reading is from 
Skeat's text. 692. of his craft : cf. 1. 401. Berwik into Ware, Berwick 
in the extreme north of England to Ware in the south, i.e. all England : cf. 
the expression " from the Atlantic to the Pacific." 694. male, bag or ' wallet ' 
(11. 681 and 686). pilwe-beer, pillow case. 695. lady, the Virgin Mary. 
For form of possessive, see note on 1. 88. 696. gobet, a small fragment. 698. 
hente, took, enlisted as a disciple : cf. 1. 299. 699. croys of latoun, cross 
of latten, a kind of brass much used in making church utensils, ful of 
stones, set with precious stones, though probably imitation. 700. pigges 
bones, which he evidently was exhibiting as those of some saint. There is 
no doubt that Chaucer wished to portray this pardoner as a cheat and im- 
postor. This, however, does not justify critics in assuming that Chaucer was 
in any sense contemptuous of the Church or its worthy representatives. 702. 
person, same as ' persoun,' 1. 478. up-on lond, in the country. 703. Up-on 
a day, in one day. 704. tweye, two. 705. japes, tricks. 706. He . . . 
apes. He made dupes of both parson and people. 708. ecclesiaste : see 
the noun ecclesiastic in Diet. 709. rede, interpret or explain. 710. alder- 
best, best of all. 712. moste, had to, must, affyle his tonge, polish up 
his language. 713. coude : see 1. 95. 

715-724. 716. Thestat, the estate: cf 'of what degree,'. 1. 40. 
tharray, the array: cf. 1. 41. the nombre : see note on 11. 163-164. 
719. highte : see 1. 616. Belle, evidently another inn in Southwark. 
721. baren, bore or conducted, us: the personal pronoun used for the 
reflexive, ilke : cf. 1. 175. 723. viage : cf. 1. 77. 

725-746. 726. narette {ne-a>-rette), ascribe not to. vileinye : see 
1. 70. 727. Thogh that: cf 'How that,' 1. 721, 'Why that,' 1. 717. See 
note on 'whan that,' 1. i. 728. chere, behavior. 729. proprely, just 
as they said them. 731. Who-so . . . man, whosoever undertakes to tell 
a story impersonating or in the character of (' after ') any particular man. 
732. moot: cf. 1. 232. 733. Everich a, same as ' everich,' 1. 241. charge. 



45 8 NOTES TO CHAUCER 

the task which he has taken upon himself, i.e. of impersonating. 734. Al, 
same as 'al be,' 1. 297. large, coarsely. 736. feyne thing, invent things 
other than really happened. For number of thing, see note on 1. 74. 738. He 
moot . . . another, He ought not to choose his words, but should say one 
as readily as he would another. 740. vileinye : cf. 1. 726. 741. who-so 
can him rede. Chaucer, who presumably could not read Greek, is doubtless 
quoting from a Latin writer on Plato. 742. The wordes . . . dede. The 
words must correspond to, or be kindred ('cosin') to, the thing described 
('dede'). 743-746. Also . . . understonde. "For the sake of dramatic 
interest the poet does not make his pilgrims tell their stories in the order of 
their precedence, and humorously excuses his offence against propriety on the 
ground that his mind was not equal to the task — 'ye may wel understonde.' " 
(Liddell.) 744. Al: </l. 734- 

747-809. 747. everichon: cf. 1. 31. 750. us leste, it pleased us. 
753. stepe : cf. 1. 201. 754. burgeys: cf. 1. 369. Chepe, Cheapside, one 
of the wealthiest districts of London. 755. wys : f/i 1. 68. 758. pleyen, 
to make sport. 760. maad our rekeninges, paid our bills. 761. lordinges, 
gentlemen. 765. herberwe, inn ; a harbor for the traveller : cf. 1. 403. 
766. doon yow mirthe, give you a good time: cf. 1. 759. 768. doon yow 
ese, make entertainment for you. 770. quyte yow your made, may he give 
(requite) you your reward (for the pilgrimage). 771. wOOt: <:/". 1. 389. 772. 
Ye . . . pleye. You are intending to tell stories and make sport. 777. yow 
lyketh, it pleases you, an impersonal construction, 'yow' being a dative (as 
also in 11. 775, 776, 779, and 782). 781. fader: see note on 1. 88. 782. But: 
see 1. 521. 785. Us thoughte : see note on 1. 37. wys, a matter of delib- 
eration. 786. avys, advice, consideration. 788. Lordinges: cf. 1. 761. 
789. desdeyn, indifference. 791. to shorte with, with which to shorten, 
the relative lohich referring to tales in the next lines. 793. To Caunterbury- 
ward : see note on 1. 397. 794. othere two. For the thirty-one characters, 
who were to tell stories, this would make one hundred and twenty-four tales. 
The actual number of the Canterbury Tales is twenty-four. Of these twenty- 
four tales, one (the Cook's) was scarcely begun, and another (the Squyer's) 
was only half completed. See II Pens. (109-115, and notes). 795. why- 
lom, once on a time. 796. bereth him: cf. 1. 721. 798. sentence, mean- 
ing, solas, entertainment. 799. our aller, of us all. 805. withseye, 
oppose. 808. anon: cf. 1. 32. 809. erly shape me, begin to get ready. 

810-821. 811. preyden, we prayed him, besought. 817. In heigh 
and lowe, in all matters important and unimportant, i.e. in all respects. 
819. fet, fetched. 820. echon, each one. 

822-858. 822. A-morwe, in the morning (the 17th of April): see 
note on 11. 7-8. 823. our aller cok, the cock for all of us, i.e. aroused us 
all. 824. And . . . flok. Thus Chaucer wittily carries out the metaphor in 
'cok.' 825. riden, past tense, plural, pas, at a foot pace. 826. watering 
of seint Thomas. This was a place for watering horses, at the second mile- 
stone on the road from London to Canterbury. St. Thomas is, of course. 



FAERIE QUEENE 459 

Thomas a Becket, the saint of Canterbury: see note on 1. 17. 829. WOOt : 
cf. 1. 3S9. forward, fore word : cf. 1. t^t,. it yow recorde, remind you of it. 
830. If even-song . . . acorde, If you sing the same song as you did last 
evening, i.e. have not changed your mind. 833-834. Who-SO . . . spent: 
cf. 11. 805-806. 835. draweth cut, draw lots to see who gets the short straw. 
ferrer twinne, depart further. 837-841. Sire . . . noght. What reasons 
may be suggested for singling out the knight, the prioress, and the clerk for 
the first drawing, before brusquely bidding the others ' ley hond to ' ? 840. 
shamfastnesse, modesty, dislike for prominence. 841. Ne studieth noght. 
This is one place in which study would avail the scholar nothing. 842. wight : 
^1.71. 844. aventure, chance, sort, destiny, cas, accident. 846. glad. 
What reasons may be suggested for their satisfaction ? 847. resoun, proper 
or reasonable. 848. forward: cf. 1. 829. composicioun : the Norman- 
French equivalent of the Anglo-Saxon ' forward.' 853. shal, am destined to. 
854. What, equivalent to Why, then, a Goddes name, in God's name. 856. 
riden : see note on 1. 825. 858. in this manere, thus ending the Prologue, 
and introducing the first of the Canierhiiry Tales. It may interest the stu- 
dent to know which characters actually took part in this story-telling. The 
order given by the Ellesmere manuscript, from which our text is taken, is as 
follows: (i) Knight; (2) Miller; (3) Reeve; (4) Cook (only begun: see 
note on 1. 794); (5) Man of Law; (6) Wife of Bath; (7) Friar; (8) 
Summoner ; (9) Clerk; (10) Merchant; (11) Squire (only half told : see 
note on 1. 794); (12) Franklin; (13) Doctor; (14) Pardoner; (15) 
Shipman ; (16) Prioress; (17) The Poet; (18) The Poet in his Second 
Tale; (19) Monk; (20) Nun's Priest; (21) Second Nun; (22) Canon's 
Yeoman (a new character who had joined the party on the fourth day) ; (23) 
Manciple ; (24) Parson. 

The student should read the paragraphs in the Introduction to this vol- 
ume, p. cv, on realism and idealism, and make application of them in the con- 
sideration of Chaucer's method. See also Introduction, pp. xxxix-1, on 
creative expression, and discuss Chaucer's employment of memory-images, and 
of figures, poetic, logical, and rhetorical. On the Metrical Tale, see p. xcvi. 



SPENSER 

FAERIE QUEENE 

Gloriana, queen of Fairyland, while holding at her court a solemn festival 
lasting twelve days, sends out each day a noble knight to do battle against 
some impersonation of vice or error. This is, in general, the plan of Spenser's 
Faerie Queene. The day's adventures of each knight occupy in turn a book 
of the poem. Each of the twelve champions is supposed to be a representa- 
tive or embodiment of some one of the twelve virtues, while Prince Arthur 
(not yet made king), who is to marry Gloriana at the end of the poem, com- 



460 NOTES TO SPENSER 

bines them in their highest degree. The poem is hence an allegory, picturing 
the human soul in its struggle toward perfection. It is also an epic of ideal 
romance, telling, with wonderful power of imagination and expression, a story 
of linightly adventure and heroic enterprise. It is linked with the age in 
which its author lived, partly by symbolizing actual contemporary religious and 
political struggles, and partly, as some think, i)y portraying actual men and 
women of the time under the guise of the knights and ladies of the story. 
Thus, Gloriana is Queen Elizabeth ; Prince Arthur may be Leicester or Sid- 
ney ; the Red Cross Knight, possibly Raleigh ; Duessa, Mary, Queen of Scots. 

The Faerie Queene was extremely popular from the first. It is and has 
always been the delight and inspiration of poets. The student who is inter- 
ested in this selection is advised to proceed with Kitchin's edition of the First 
Book (Clarendon Press, Oxford), and then to buy a complete edition, such 
as the Globe (Macmillan). Only six books of the Faerie Queene were pub- 
lished ; yet, even in this uncompleted state, the poem is one of the longest in 
the language, — over twice as long as Paradise Lost or the Idylls of the King. 
The first three books, legends of Holiness, Temperance, and Chastity, were 
published in 1590. The last three, of Friendship, Justice, and Courtesy, came 
out six years later. Portions of a seventh book, on Constancy, were also 
brought to light after the poet's death. It will be instructive to compare the 
archaic orthography of this poem with that of Chaucer and of Milton. Since 
Chaucer's time, two centuries before, many words had been lost ; the spelling 
of others had greatly changed and had become more nearly fixed ; final e had 
ceased to be sounded ; the sounds of vowels had grown to be more like those 
of modern English. That the language was still in a formative state, how- 
ever, is proved by the decided changes which took place between Spenser's 
time and that of Milton, less than half a century later. 

The metrical system of the Faerie Queene has been referred to in the 
Introduction. It was invented by Spenser, and has accordingly been called 
the Spenserian stanza. The stanza consists of nine lines, eight of them being 
5 xa or iambic pentameter, and the ninth 6 xa, or iambic hexameter. The 
eight lines in heroic {i.e. epic, or 5 xa^ measure are made up of two quatrains 
of alternate rhyme, tied together by rhyming the last line of the first quatrain 
with the first line of the second. To this eight-line stanza, which had been 
used by Chaucer in his Monk's tale, Spenser added an iambic hexameter line 
(an Alexandrine — an old French verse-form) rhyming with the preceding line, 
and thus created a stanza whose effect is unique in poetry, and which has been 
used by many subsequent poets, — among others Thomson, Burns, Scott, 
Byron, Shelley, and Keats. The rhyme and metre system of this stanza may 
be briefly symliolized as follows : rhyme, a-b-a-h-b-c-b-c-c ; metre, 8 (5 xa) -f- I 
(6 xa). On Epic and Allegory, see Introduction, pp. xciv-xcvi. 

Introductory Stanzas : I. The Poet and his task. 1-2. Lo I . . . 
weeds. Spenser had formerly (' whylome ') been engaged in writing a pas- 
toral {Shepheard's Calender, 1579). 4. trumpets . . . reeds. He is here 
changing from a pastoral writer to a writer of epic. 7. areeds, urges or directs. 



FAERIE QUEENE 46 1 

II-IV. Invocation to the Muse, to Cupid, and to the Queen. 10. Virgin 
chiefe of nyne. Clio, the Muse of History. Why was she especially invoked? 
See CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 71-72. 12. scryne, a chest for keeping books. 
14. Tanaquill, Gloriana: see introduction to notes. 15. Briton Prince, 
Arthur, who is represented as journeying in quest of the Faerie Queene. 
19. impe, child, referring to Cupid : see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 70. Has the 
poet any authority for speaking of Jove as Cupid's father? 21. rove, to 
shoot, as an arrow. 23. heben, ebony. 25. Mart, Mars : see CI. D. or 
CI. M., pp. 57-58. 28. Goddesse heavenly bright, Queen Elizabeth, now 
an old woman, but none the less fond of flattery. 31. Phoebus lampe, the 
sun. 32. eyne, the old plural of eye. 33-35. too humble . . . afQicted 
stile. Affected humility was a common characteristic of many of the earlier 
English poets. 

Canto I. Introductory lines. These concisely explain the allegory of the 
canto. See the introduction to these notes, and the note at the end of the 
text in this volume. 

I-III. 37. Knight, the Red Cross Knight, or Holiness. 38. Ycladd. 
For the force of v, see I'Alleg. (12). 44. jolly, fine looking. 45. giusts, 
jousts. 51. For, as a sign of. 53. cheere, appearance. 54. ydrad : see 
note on 1. 38. 56. greatest Gloriana, another compliment to Elizabeth. 
58. worshippe, knightly renown. 60. earne, yearn. 63. Dragon, i.e. Error. 
See introduction to notes. 

IV-V. 64. Ladie, Una, or Truth ; from Lat. unus, since "Truth is one." 
67. wimpled: see Pro/ogue {4.'jo). 72. milke-white lambe. What may this 
typify in the allegory? 75-78. And . . . held. Una personifies not only 
Truth, but also Religion as embodied in the Church, which, according to the 
poet, once had dominion from shore to shore. 79-81. Till . . . compeld. 
Error has ' forwasted ' the true Church ; and Una (Truth) has accordingly 
called upon the Red Cross Knight (Holiness) to assist in her overthrow. 

VI-IX. 82. Dwarfe. The dwarf is variously explained. Some think he 
represents " common sense, or prudence " ; others that he stands for " the 
flesh." 84. wearied, three syllables, as shown by the scansion. 88. le- 
mans. To what does the poet refer ? 89. shrowd it, ward it off. 92. 
shadie grove : the Wood of Error, so dense that it shuts out the stars of 
heaven, 1. 96. 105. sayling pine. This has been explained as the pine 
" whence sailing ships are made." 106. never dry. The poplar is said to 
grow best in damp soil. 109-110. meed . . . sage. A wreath of laurel was 
in ancient times the reward both of victor and of poet. no. weepeth. The 
fir gives forth a liquid balsam, in. willow, said to have been used to make 
garlands for those disappointed in love. 112. eugh, yew, a wood commonly 
used in making bows. 113. birch, for arrows, sallow, a species of willow, 
evidently used for some manufacturing purpose. 114. mirrh, an Arabian 
shrub which exudes a bitter-tasting, but sweet-smelling resinous gum, called 
myrrh. For Myrrha, see Ct. D. or CI. M., p. 172. 115. beech, used to make 
the shafts of lances, ash for nothing ill, since valuable for almost every 



462 NOTES TO SHAKESPEARE 

kind of purpose. 116. platane, the plane tree. 117. carver holme. The 
holm, a species of holly, is especially valuable for carving. 

X-XIV. 131. tract, track, or tracing — obsolete in this sense. 
132. hoUowe cave, the cave of Error. 134. Eftsoones : see Ancient 
Mariner (12). 135. needlesse spare. Why needless? 137. provoke, 
in its radical sense (Lat./rt;, forth + vocare, to call). 142-143. shame . . . 
shade. It would be a cowardly action to go back for fear of some possible 
hidden danger. 144. Vertue . . . wade: cf. Co;«?« (373-375). 146. wot, 
know. 150. wandring wood, wood of error (Lat. err are, to wander). 
152. read (rede), advise or counsel. 154. hardiment, boldness or hardi- 
hood — now obsolete. 155. ought, aught. 162. vile disdaine, so vile as to 
disgust the one who sees it. 

Is Spenser's view of life idealistic, realistic, romantic, or aesthetic? Cf. 
with Chaucer's. What order of poetic imagination does each possess ? See 
Introduction, pp. cv and xxxii-xxxv, xli-1. 

SONNET TO RALEIGH 

This was one of about twenty sonnets which Spenser addressed to various 
dignitaries of England at the time the first instalment of the Faerie Queene 
was published. These lines are inserted here, not so much for any especial 
value in themselves as to give an illustration of a sonnet form, entirely differ- 
ent from the form now ordinarily known as a "sonnet." See the discus- 
sion of the sonnet in the Introduction to this book, p. Ixxxv, in the discussion 
of sixteenth-century poetry, and in the notes under Milton and Words- 
worth. It will be noted that the stanza we are here considering has the same 
number of lines as the ordinary sonnet ; and that, like the ordinary sonnet, it 
is written in iambic pentameters. But the rhyme system of Spenser's Anioretli, 
as well as of these dedicatory stanzas, is entirely different from that of the 
modern sonnet. We have here a-b-a-b-b-c-b-c-c-d-c-d-e-e, i.e. three quatrains 
in alternate rhyme, tied together by having the last line of one quatrain rhyme 
with the first line of the following quatrain (^cf. the discussion of the rhyme 
of the Spenserian stanza in the notes to the Faerie Queene), these three 
quatrains being followed by a couplet of different rhyme. This was also the 
form of Shakespeare's sonnets, and of most of those written by Wyatt and 
Surrey, except that Shakespeare and the others did not tie the quatrains 
together by rhyme. 

SHAKESPEARE 



For the versification see above, and in Introduction, p. Ixxxvii. Most of 
Shakespeare's sonnets seem to have been produced in 1594. They deal with 
difterent themes and are generally of the conventional and affected manner 
of the day. Some genuine emotion occasionally displays itself in the series 
addressed to a young nobleman, probably Shakespeare's patron, Henry 



UALLEGRO AND IL PENSEROSO 463 

Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton. We cannot say, for certain, whether one 
or all of the five sonnets given in the text were of this series. These sonnets 
offer no unusual difficulties to the reader : hence it has been thought best 
to present them without annotation. They have been included in this book 
as representative of Shakespeare's non-dramatic poetry ; and, as such, may 
profitably be compared with the sonnets of Milton or of Wordsworth. It may 
also be of interest to compare the diction and orthography of Shakespeare 
with that of his contemporary, Spenser. 

MILTON 

L'ALLEGRO and IL PENSEROSO 

These poems were written, probably sometime in 1632, at the beginning of 
Milton's residence at Horton. They are companion poems, and as such 
each must be read in the light of the other. D Allegro (the cheerful man) 
is here the lover of society and of unreflecting, though innocent, mirth. 11 
Penseroso (the thoughtful man) is the recluse, living, not like U Allegro, in the 
enjoyment of the present, but with an eye toward a larger life in the future. 
U Allegro is ever ready to indulge in the pleasures of his fellows. // Penseroso 
is a seeker after that solitude which furnishes opportunity for study and 
meditation. Each is entirely unable to appreciate, or even to understand, 
the ideals of the other. (On Reflective Poetry, see Introduction, p. xcvii.) 

Though each poem, in a way, represents the manner in which a day might 
ideally be spent (in U Allegro, from early morning till midnight, and in II 
Penseroso, from early evening till the next noon), the poet does much more 
than this, by making the day in each case representative of the whole life 
which each character would desire to live. In all probability Milton did not 
intend either of these poems to picture the true ideal ; but rather designed to 
suggest through them complementary, though contrasted, aspects of human 
temperament. Thus the two poems are really not two, but one, " whose 
theme," as some one has said, " is the praise of the reasonable life." 

The metre of the poems is suggestive. In the // Penseroso the lines are, 
for the most part, smooth, unbroken, iambic tetrameters — well suited to the 
thoughtful, contemplative poem. The iambic tetrameter of U Allegro, on the 
other hand, is varied by trochaic eftects. These are produced by what is 
called truncation (see Introduction, pp. lix, Ixviii) ; the first light syllable of 
the iambic tetrameter being omitted, so that the rhythm reads like that of tro- 
chaic tetrameter, or trochaic tetrameter catalectic (last syllable wanting) ; these 
quickly spoken, lively feet suggesting the mood of the more sprightly composi- 
tion. As illustrative of this, note the lines where each of the two men 
summons his ideal divinity : 

Com, and trip it, as ye go. L'Alleg. (33). 

/ / / / 

Com, pensive Nun, devout and pure. II Pens. (31). 



464 NOTES TO MILTON 

Since these poems are not divided into stanzas, in the following notes a 
grouping of lines has been made which may serve for stanzaic divisions. 

l'allegko 

1-10. Observe and describe the rhyme and metre of these lines, showing 
how the rough and irregular verse is well suited to the mood of the passage. 

1. Melancholy, here equivalent to an austere and meditative conduct of life. 

2. Cerberus. For this three-headed dog of the underworld, see CI. D. or 
CI. M., pp. 79, 238. 3. Stygian. For Styx, the river bounding the infernal 
regions, see CI. D. or CI. JM., p. 78. 5. uncouth (past part, of A.-S. un + 
cminan), hence, originally, not known. But that which was not known was 
once naturally regarded with distrust or aversion ; hence the secondary mean- 
ings, — hrst, outlandish; then, ugly or repulsive. Here the poet evidently 
has in mind both the radical and the derived meaning. 10. Cimmerian : 
see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 195. What attributes of Melancholy does HAllegro 
imply by the imaginary parentage he ascribes ? the birthplace ? the sur- 
roundings ? 

11-24. Show the metre and rhyme of this and succeeding divisions as 
contrasted with the first ten lines. 12. ycleap'd (from A.-S.^^^, ox y, or i — 
in early Enghsh frequently a sign of the perfect passive participle + clipian, 
to call) hence called or named. Euphrosyne, one of the Graces : see 
CI. D. or CI. i1/., p. 71. 13. heart-easing. Note the felicity of this com- 
pound epithet and of others of the same kind. In his coinage of such words, 
Milton undoubtedly excels all other English poets. Always suggestive and 
frequently beautiful, they have been termed, not inaptly, " poems in minia- 
ture." 14 ; 16. lovely Venus ; ivy-crowned Bacchus : see CI. D. or CI. 
M., pp. 65-66, 76 ; and show what characteristics such parentage would 
tend to give to Mirth. 17. sager : an adjective, but here used with adverbial 
force. 19. Zephir with Aurora. By reference to CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 72, 
73, show why Milton preferred this parentage for Mirth rather than the one 
given above. Probably no English poet has known or understood the Classics 
better than Milton. Any deviation from the accepted stories or genealogies 
of Geeek mythology must, therefore, be regarded as a conscious alteration for 
purposes of his own. 21. blew, blue. Though numerous archaic forms are 
found in Milton, it will be noted that since the time of Spenser, fifty years 
before, the language had been making great strides toward its present 
orthography. 24. debonair (Fr. de + bon -\- aire), of good bearing or 
manners. 

25-36. Name the companions of Mirth, describe each, and show the 
attributes which make each good company. 29. Hebe's cheek. For this 
goddess of youth, see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 71. 33. trip it. Here ' it ' is a 
cognate accusative, the meaning of which is derived from the governing verb. 
33-34. Com . . . toe. Note' this well-known couplet, now popularly applied 
to the encouragement of dancing, but invented by the poet of Puritanism. 
36. Liberty. Why is ' Liberty ' called a mountain nymph ? 



L ALLEGRO 465 

37-40. These four lines are transitional, introducing the rest of the 
poem. V Allegro now imagines himself spending a day in conformity with 
his ideals of happiness. See introduction to notes. 40. unreproved pleasures 
free. Note the order of the words — very common in Milton : a post posi- 
tive adjective modifying the idea expressed in the two words which precede 
it. unreproved, unreprovable, i.e. innocent. 

41-68. Describe the five definite pictures which together make up this 
division. 41. To hear. Show whether this is an infinitive of purpose (or 
result) modifying ' admit' and coordinate with ' to live ' (39), or is in apposi- 
tion with ' pleasures,' and one of them. 41 ; 42. begin ; startle. Explain the 
syntax of these infinitives. 44. dappled Dawn. Describe the picture. 
45. to com. The syntax and consequent meaning of this infinitive offer quite 
a puzzle. Does the lark come, or U Allegro, or the Da-wn? To whom or 
what, in each case, would ' good morrow ' be bidden ? What, in each case, 
would be the syntax of 'to com ' ? This last question is very important and 
illustrates something the student will frequently notice, viz., how necessary to 
accurate interpretation is a clear understanding of syntactical relations. 45. 
in spight (spite) of, not, as usual, notwithstanding; but rather, in order to 
spite or defy. 52. before, a post-positive preposition. 53-56. Oft . . . 
shrill. Put these four lines into prose order, showing what ' echoing ' modi- 
fies, and indicating the images the lines possess for eye and ear. 57. walk- 
ing. Give the syntax, not unseen, he likes company. Compare this line 
with // Pens. (65), and show which of the two lines seems to have been 
modelled on the other. 62. clOuds, nominative independent before a parti- 
ciple. Compare the Latin ablative absolute, dight, arrayed, is now rarely 
used. 67. tells his tale, counts his number (of sheep), the old meaning of 
'tale.' What hours of the day have the occurrences of this division occupied ? 

69-90. 69-70. Streit . . . measures. Note the effect of the trochaic 
lines and feminine rhymes as marking a sudden transition of thought. 
69. Streit (straight), straightway. round, an adverb. 71. lawns, a 
favorite word with Milton, and often found in other poets. It always means 
a large, open, grassy stretch of country, not a cultivated lawn or grass-plot. 
75. pide (pied). Show whether this modifies 'meadows' or 'daisies.' 
78. boosom'd. Explain. 79. som beauty lies, some high-born and beautiful 
lady dwells. 80. cynosure : see Did. for derivation and history, showing 
how a word that originally meant dog's tail has come to signify centre of 
attraction. 83. Corydon and Thyrsis, common names for shepherds in 
pastoral poets, such as the Greek Theocritus or the Roman Virgil. Likewise 
' Thestylis,' 1. 88, and ' Phillis,' 1. 86, are shepherdesses. What shows, as was 
indicated at the beginning of these notes, that the poet is not endeavoring to 
depict any single day? 87. bowre (bower), as often in Milton, means a 
dwelling place — -here a cottage. 90. tann'd haycock. Why ' tann'd ' ? 

91-99. 91. secure (Lat. se, or sine, + euro), with its radical meaning, 
without care, care-free. Remember that Milton wrote nearly three hun- 
dred years ago, and that we may consequently expect to find many words in 



466 NOTES TO MILTON 

their earlier, radical, or primary meaning, rather than their later, derived, or 
secondary meaning. 94. jocond. Observe that this is a transferred epithet. 
What is really 'jocund ' ? rebeck, a sort of three-stringed fiddle. 96. chequer'd 
shade. Why chequered ? 98. holyday. What was the original meaning of 
' holiday,' as suggested by the old spelling in the text. See derivation and history. 
100-116. loi. feat, in Milton's time pronounced fate, and rhyming 
with ' eat ' (past tense). 102. Mab, the fairy, " no bigger than the agate stone 
on the fore-finger of an alderman" (as Mercutio says in Romeo and Juliet), 
whose function it was to bring dreams. Milton may have had in mind Ben 
Jonson's — 

" This is Mab, the mistress Fairy 
That doth nightly rob the dairy, 

# # ^!& 9|& ^ 5(t 

She that pinches country wenches 
If they rub not clean their benches." 

junkets, a kind of cream cheese. See first couplet above, 103. She, a 
country wench, as in second couplet above. 104. he, the second teller of 
stories, a shepherd or farm servant, is led by Friar Rush (a house haunter, 
confused here with Jack o' Lantern or Will o' the Wisp) to a spot where he 
sees the ' drudging goblin,' Robin Goodfellow, or the Puck of Shakespeare, 
perform the feats of 11. 105-114. 106. cream-bowle, 'duly set ' out by the 
farm servants to tempt the sturdy little goblin to do their work for them. 
110-112. lubbar fend (lubber fiend), stretch'd, chimney's length, hairy 
strength — all seem expressions oddly suited to Robin Goodfellow. Why? 
113. crop-full, stomach-stuffed, flings. Observe the headlong haste im- 
plied. 114. mattin (a French word, meaning morning), here means 
morning call, just as the matin-bell called to early prayers. 115. tales: see 
note on ' clouds,' 1. 62. 

117-124. Discuss the following interpretations of this passage : (i) That 
L^ Allegro really goes to the city after his rustic companions have retired. 
(2) That ' then ' means not afterward, but on other occasions or also, the 
visit to the city being actual, but on a different day. (3) That his visit is in 
imagination and revery, brought about by his readings after his compan- 
ions have gone to bed. 118. busie humm. Observe the onomatopceia. 
120. weeds, now used chiefly in the expression "widow's weeds." Thus 
many words, no longer in common use, are still retained in compounds or 
special phrases: cf. riding-habit, dove-cote, hand-kerchief, etc. triumphs 
(from Lat. triumphns, a procession, originally in honor of Bacchus, and later 
to grace a Roman victory), here some kind of an imposing tournament. 
122. Rain influence, in its radical sense (Lat. in + Jluere); give forth, like 
the stars, a magic control which shapes the destinies of mankind. 122. judge 
the prise. This ' influence ' or control was such that those upon whom it 
flowed could not help but win. In this way the prize is judged (or adjudged) 
by the 'bright eyes.' 123. wit. The contests seem to be not only physical, 
such as tourneys, but also intellectual. What, for instance? 



IL PENSEROSO 467 

125-134. 125-126. Hymen . . . taper clear. The clear taper was 
supposed to foretell a happy marriage: see CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 70, 185. 
127. Pomp, etc. The god of marriage, thus portrayed, was no uncommon 
figure in the masques and pageants of Milton's time. 128. Pageantry. 
Pageants were originally movable platforms or wagons on which actors per- 
formed; then the word came to refer to the performance on such a platform; 
and finally it signified any such elaborate spectacle, wherever produced, 
129-130. Such . . . stream. Note the exquisite thought, imagery, and 
sound of these lines. They form a bit of rare poetry. 132. Jonson's learned 
sock. Discuss the implied comparison between this scholarly writer of 
dramas and masques, and ' sweetest. Shakespear, Fancie's child.' sock. 
Look up the soccus, or low slipper of the classic comedian, as contrasted with 
the buskin, or cothurnus, of the tragedian. 133, Fancie's childe. Explain. 
134. native wood-notes wilde. Name three or four comedies of Shake- 
speare which this particularly describes. 

135-150. Observe the liquid sounds and onomatopoetic effects of which 
these lines are full. 135. against, as a protection from. 136. Lydian aires. 
The three kinds of Greek music were the serious and majestic Dorian, the 
bright and sprightly Phrygian, and the soft and voluptuous Lydian. 
137. Married to immortal verse, i.e. music and words joined together as 
in an opera. 138. meeting soul. Why 'meeting'? 141. wanton heed; 
giddy cunning. What does the poet mean by these seeming paradoxes ? 
142. voice : see note on 1. 62. 143-144. Untwisting . . . harmony. The 
harmony in the human soul is assumed to be bound or fettered, except on 
those rare occasions when some strong stimulus or emotion untwists its fetters 
and sets it free. 145-150. Orpheus . . . Eurydice. Review the story in 
detail: see CI. D. or CI. RL, pp. 185-188. 147. Elysian : see CI. D. ox 
CI. M.y pp. 81, 82. 149. quite. How nearly did Pluto free Eurydice ? 

What kind of imagery is principally used in this poem? Derived or poetic? 
What senses are appealed to, and what is the class of each poetic figure? 
(See Introduction, pp. xHi, cix.) Comment upon the melody of 11. 135- 
153, noting the sequence of vowel-tones and of consonants (Introduction, 
pp. Ixix, Ixxiii). Indicate the metres of 11. 12, 13, 19-22, 25, 45, 46, 69-72, 
131-136. 

IL PENSEROSO 

See remarks introducing the notes to L' Allegro. As in the case of the other 
poem, a grouping of lines has here been made to serve for stanzaic divisions. 
1-10. Make a comparison between these lines and the opening lines of 
V Allegro, noting metre, rhyme, and contents. 2. brood . . . bred. They 
spring from Folly alone, i.e. are utterly frivolous. 3. bested. This uncom- 
mon verb here means profit, satisfy, or avail. 6. fond {ox\gm3.\\y formed, 
the perfect participle of the A.-S. verb fonnen, to be foolish). As late as 
Shakespeare's time the word was generally used in this radical sense of fool- 
ish. Its derived meanings have been (i) foolishly loving; (2) affectionate; 



468 NOTES TO MILTON 

(3) loving — the early idea having fully disappeared. 7-8. As thick . . . 
beams. How are these foolish fancies like the motes of the sunbeam? 
10. fickle pensioners, a retinue or body-guard which cannot be relied 
upon by the lord or lady which supports it. Explain the application. 
Morpheus. For peculiarities of the god of dreams see CI. D. or CI. A/., 
pp. 84, 196. 

11-30. Show the effect of the change in metre. Compare with UAlleg, 
(11-24). Point out the lines in this passage which have no counterpart in 
r Allegro. 12. Melancholy: see note on I'Alleg. (i) and f/^ Coiniis (546), 
'pleasing fit of melancholy.' 13-16. Whose . . . hud. Just as a light may 
be so dazzling that the eye directed toward it is blinded and sees only dark- 
ness, so L Allegro has seen nothing but blackness, and accordingly has called 
her ' loathed,' not realizing that the blackness is his own imperfection. A 
striking analogy to this thought is the poetic conception of the " music of the 
spheres," where the human ear, oblivious to the divine harmonies, perceives 
only silence. See note on Comus (112). 17. in esteem, in the estimation 
of the observer. 18. Prince Memnon's sister. For Memnon, king of the 
Ethiopians and friend of the Trojans, see CI. D. or 67. /J/., pp. 199, 303. There 
are only the vaguest accounts of any sister ; yet Milton creates her as a 
counterpart of Melancholy. Blackness would ' beseem ' or suit such a 
beauty as hers. 19-21. starr'd Ethiope queen . . . offended. Read the 
story of Cassiopea in CI. D. or CI. iM., pp. 228-229. According to the usual 
version, it was the beauty of Cassiopea's daughter, Andromeda, which was 
compared with that of the sea nymphs. Both mother and daughter were 
afterward placed in the sky as constellations; hence ' starred.' 22. higher, 
than who ? 23-30. long of yore, solitary Saturn, Saturn's reign. While 
yet there was no fear of Jove, all point back to the " ( loldcn Age " before 
Jupiter had ascended the throne. See CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 39, 88. Also 
determine the attributes of Melancholy through the parentage assigned to 
her. See Saturn (or Cronus, his Greek prototype) and Vesta in CI. D. 
or CI. M., pp. 39 and 69. 29. woody Ida, more probably the mountain of 
Crete than that of Asia Minor. 

31-54. Compare with the corresponding passage in L Allegro. Also 
contrast the rhythm of the two passages. 31. pensive Nun. Why so called ? 
33. grain (Lat. gramaii), a seed or kernel ; hence a seedlike object, such 
as the body of the cochineal insect, from which we get a rich purple dye. 
Thus 'grain' comes to be used for this red or purple color. 35. Cipres 
(cypress or cyprus) lawn, refers to a kind of fine crape. 36. decent, used 
here in its radical sense of comely or becoming: cf. Des. Vil. (12). 39. com- 
mercing, holding intercourse or communion with. 40. soul: see note on 
L\-llleg. (62). 42. Forget . . . marble, become like a statue in thy rapt 
thoughtfulness. 46-48. Spare Fast . . . sing. Milton often repeats this 
endorsement of" plain living and high thinking," — that only the temperate or 
abstemious man can 'diet ' (or dine) with the gods; that he only can receive 
true poetic inspiration, — 'hear the Muses sing.' Look up the Muses in 



IL PENSEROSO 469 

CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 71, 72. 52-54. Him that yon soars . . . Contempla- 
tion. Professor Masson thus explains this passage: "A daring use of the 
great vision, in Ezekiel, chap, x, of the sapphire throne, the wheels of which 
were four cherubs, while in the midst of them and underneath the throne 
was a burning tire. Milton ventures to name one of these cherubs who guide 
the fiery wheelings of the visionary throne." 

55-E4-. Give not only the theme of this division, but also the extent and 
theme of each of its three subdivisions. Point out the corresponding passage 
in E Allegro. 55. hist, now an interjection, but, as used here, an impera- 
tive, pure onomatopoeia and very expressive. 56. Philomel. A common 
poetical term for the nightingale. For her story, see CI. D. or CI. J\I., p. 258. 
57. plight. This may be the present word meaning unfortunate condition ; 
or, as some thmk, a strain of music, as being made up of sounds interwoven 
or plaited. This is the sense of the words in ' plighted clouds,' Coinus 
(301). 59. While Cynthia . . . yoke. The birthplace of Diana was Mt. 
Cynthus in Delos; hence her name 'Cynthia.' See CI. D. or CI. M., p. 63. 
The ' dragon yoke ' was probably Milton's invention. Dragons were driven 
by Ceres, Medea, and others, but not by Diana. See note on EAlleg. (19). 
60. accustom'd oke. Is the oak ' accustomed ' as respects the bird, the moon, 
or the poet ? 63-64. Thee . . . even-song. Put these two lines into prose 
order. 65. unseen: cf. with 'not unseen,' EAlleg. (57), and see note. 
68. highest noon: i.e. the zenith. 74. curfeu (Fr. coitvre + feu, cover- 
fire), a bell rung about eight or nine o'clock in the evening, originally as a 
signal for fires to be extinguished. See Gray's Elegy (i). 76. Swinging . . . 
roar. Show the effect of the alliteration and the onomatopoeia. 78. fit, 
suit my mood. 83. belman's drousie charm, the night-watchman used 
to repeat pious verses to charm evil away from the doors. This was 
naturally a mere droning formula; hence 'drowsy.' 

85-96. 87. out-watch the Bear, stay up later than the constellation of 
the Great Bear. But in the latitude of England this constellation does not 
set, disappearing only with the dawn. Thus we may infer the duration of 
// Penseroso's studies. 88. With thrice great Hermes. Hermes Trisme- 
gistus (?>. Hermes, thrice great,), a fabled Egyptian king, was supposed to 
have lived about the time of Moses, He is probably the same as the mythical 
Egyptian philosopher Thot, whom the Greeks believed identical with their 
god Hermes. Several philosophical works of an ideal nature, written during 
the early centuries of the Christian era, and much studied in mediaeval times, 
were, in a vague way, ascribed to him ; and it is these books that // Penseroso 
delights to spend the night in reading. 88-8g. unsphear (unsphere) The 
spirit of Plato, i.e. call his spirit back from the sphere of the other world 
through studying his philosophy. // Penseroso wishes to learn from him 
(i) the truths of immortality which he so early taught, and (2) the doctrine 
of demonology suggested by him and taught by his followers. These ' de- 
mons,' or spirits, were divided into various classes, each having a harmony, 
or intimate relation ('consent'), with one of the various primary elements, — 



470 NOTES TO MILTON 

earth, air, fire, and water. 92. mansion (Lat. ;«aM("ri?), in its original sense, 
the place where one remains, fleshly nook, i.e. the body. 

97-102. 98. In scepter'd pall com sweeping by, i.e. 'sweeping by' 
in imagination, since he is reading these Greek tragedies, pall {\^2X. palla) 
is the cloak worn by the tragic actor, who would also, in liis character of a 
royal personage, carry a sceptre. 99. Presenting Thebs, or Pelops' line, 
i.e. representing (i) the descendants of the house of Thebes, especially 
Oidipus and his children (such plays, for example, as the Seve^i against Thebes 
of ^schylus, and the Gldipiis Tyranm4S,'ihe. CEdipus Coloneus, and the Antigone 
of Sophocles) ; and (2) the great-grandson of Pelops, Agamemnon, and his 
family (such plays as the Agatnemnon and the Eumetiides of /Eschylus ; the 
Electra of Sophocles ; and the Tphigenia in Atilis, the Iphigcnia in Tauris, 
and the Electra of Euripides). 100. Or the tale of Troy divine, /.^.trage- 
dies concerning characters who appear in the Trojan war (for example, the 
Ajax and the Philoctetes of Sophocles, and the Andromache and the Hecuba 
of Euripides). Look up these names in the CI. D. or in the CI. M., by 
reference to the index, especially the story of the descendants of Cadmus and 
of Pelops. CI. M., pp. 269-275, and pp. 285-288, 310-312. loi. Or . . . 
age. Milton is undoubtedly thinking of Shakespeare ; perhaps also of Ben 
Jonson. 102. buskin'd stage : the stage trod by actors wearing the buskin 
or cothurnus, "the boot with high heels, designed to add to the stature, and 
so to the dignity of the tragic actor." (Hales.) 

103-108. 104. Musaeus, son of Orpheus, and first of Greek poets. 
For these semi-mythological bards and their adventures, see CI. D. or CI. M., 
pp. 23, 185-188. 107-108. Drew . . . cheek, the same story as suggested 
in IJAlleg (145-150). 

109-120. 109. him that left half told. Chaucer, who did not com- 
plete his Canterbury Tales, left unfinished the Squire's Tale, which tells of 
the adventures of the Tartar king, ' Cambuscan.' According to this story — 

"This noble Kyng, this Tartre, — this Cambynskan 
Hadde two sones by Eltheta his wyf, 
Of which the eldest highte Algersyf, 
That other was i-cleped Camballo ; 
A doghter had this worthie King also 
That yongest was, and highte Canace. 

Ther cam a Knight up-on a stede of bras, 
And in his hand a brood niirour of glas. 
Upon his thombe he hadde of gold a ring, 
And by his side a naked swerd hanging." 

The horse of brass was given to Cambuscan ; to the fair Canace was 
presented the 'ring' and the 'glass,' lioth 'vertuuus' or magically powerful, 
since through the one was told the language of every bird that sang, while in 
the other were revealed the thoughts of all mankind. Chaucer does not give 



IL PENSEROSO 47 1 

the name of him ' who had Canace to wife,' though Spenser, who continued the 
poem, has supplied the omission. 113. That, a relative pronoun refer- 
ring to Canace. In the English of to-day a non-restrictive relative clause is 
always introduced by who or which ; but not so in Milton's time, 116. great 
bards beside. From the three lines that follow, it is clear that the poet has 
reference to Spenser and his Faerie Queene. Among others in his mind were 
probably Ariosto and Tasso, the Italian poets of chivalry. 120. Where more 
is meant than meets the ear. Though this line undoubtedly refers to the 
allegorical nature of the writings of these ' great bards,' it also furnishes a 
splendid canon for all true poetry. Explain. 

121-130. 121. Thus . . . career. Observe how this pentameter hne 
marks a break in the thought. 122. civil -suited, the plain garb of the 
citizen as contrasted with the bright colors of the soldier or courtier. 
124. Attick boy. Whenever Aurora went to meet her lover Cephalus, she 
was decked out in her brightest colors. See Aurora and Cephalus in CI. D, 
or CI. M., pp. 192-194. 125. Kercheft (Fr. couvre 4- chef, i.e. cover for 
the head). 128. his. The neuter possessive had hardly come into use in 
Milton's time. 130. minute drops, the drops at the end of the shower, 
falling at intervals of something like a minute. 

131-154. 131; 132. fling; flaring. Show how these words are 
particularly apt as indicating the attitude of // Penseroso. 134. Sylvan. 
For this Roman god of the fields and forests, see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 89. 
135. monumental, because a massive memorial of past ages. oake. For 
another and earlier form of the word, see 1. 60. 136. rude ax . . . heaved 
stroke. An interesting transference of epithet, the ax being heaved, and the 
stroke, rude. 137. nymphs. Look up the wood nymphs in CI. D. or CI. AL, 
p. 77. 140. profaner eye. This wood is // Penseroso's temple, and any 
intrusion of the merely inquisitive would be a profanation. 145. consort, 
similar sounds of nature. Note the onomatopoeia of the two or three pre- 
ceding lines. 146. dewy-feather'd. Explain. For Milton's use of compound 
epithets, see notes to Z,',4//^^. (13). 147-150. And let . . . laid. A difficult 
passage. Put it into prose order before attempting to decipher its meaning. 
The following suggestions may be helpful. ' Display'd in airy stream ' modifies 
and follows ' dream ' ; Maid softly on my eyelids' modifies and follows 'stream 
of lively portrature ' ; * his ' (see note on 1. 128) refers to ' sleep ' (the dreams, 
waving at the wings of sleep, thus casting images on the eyelids of the 
sleeper). 151. breathe. Supply 'let ' from 1. 147. 153. good. What does 
this modify? 154. Genius, the protecting spirit of the wood. 

155-166. 156. studious cloyster's pale, i.e. the precincts or enclos- 
ure (' pale ') of some institution established for educational purposes and for 
religious worship. 157. high embowed roof, the arched roof, possibly of 
the same cloister. 158. antick, antique, massy proof, proof against the 
mass they must sustain ; or, as others think, proof against the weight they 
must support, on account of their own massiveness. 159. storied windows, 
some Bible story being pictured in their stained glass, dight : see note on 



472 NOTES TO MILTON 

VAlkg. (62). 165-166. Dissolve me . . . mine eyes, the spiritual exalta- 
tion which such a service, amid such surroundings, naturally tends to produce 
in an emotional and artistic nature. 

167-174. These lines have no counterpart in the other poem, for the 
very essence of L' Allegro's philosophy was : Enjoy the present, and let 
the future take care of itself. 167. weary age. Note the metonymy. 
169. hairy gown, such as was worn by hermits or monks for penance, or by 
holy men of old. 170. spell, i.e. study out, slowly, carefully, thoughtfully, 
the mysteries of earth and of heaven, until finally the inward vision may gain 
a power like that possessed by the prophets. 

175-176. Compare with L'Al/eg. (ie,i-i^2). 

Comment upon the wedding of sound and sense in 11. 130-138; upon 
the alliteration and the gradation of vowel sounds in 11. 138-152 and 155- 
166 (Introduction, pp. Ixxiii, Ixxvii), What poetic use is made of se- 
quences of proper names? Which are the most ornate descriptions, and 
what is the secret of their charm ? (Introduction, pp. xlii-1.) 



Edward King, a fellow-student of Milton in Christ-'s College, was drowned 
in crossing from England to Ireland during the summer of 1637. King had 
entered Cambridge when a boy of only fourteen, and had spent eleven years 
— all of his youth and young manhood — as a well-loved son of his aloia 
mater. A fellow of his college at the age of eighteen, a tutor soon afterward, 
a candidate for the ministry, a verse writer (chiefly in Latin) of at least a 
college reputation, he had so gained the love of his associates that they were 
deeply affected by his sudden and untimely death. They resolved, therefore, 
to issue a little book of verses as a memorial, and asked Milton's aid. This 
was during the latter part of the poet's residence at Horton, and three years 
after his last poem, Comus (1634). That these three years had been spent 
in silence was due to a settled purpose, on Milton's part, not to write again 
till he had arrived at that ' inward ripeness ' which should enable him to 
attain to some such noble art as long afterward found expression in his epics. 
It is accordingly with no pretended reluctance that he breaks this resolution, 
and, in November, 1637, contributes this elegy. It is largely in the pastoral 
vein; and, save for a few digressions, is a lament of a shepherd for his fellow. 
Hence " Lycidas," a name for a shepherd, frequently used by Theocritus and 
Virgil, the most famous pastoral poets of classic literature. 

1-14. The circumstances under which the poem was written, i. once 
more, the first time since 1634. 1-2. Laurels, Myrtles, Ivy, plants of 
Apollo and Bacchus, associated in classic thought as symbols of poetry — the 
materials of the poet's wreath. 3. harsh and crude, immature, unripe, not 
ready to fall naturally. 4. forc'd fingers rude, ' forc'd ' against my real 
desire, and ' rude,' because in this way only can these unripe berries be 
plucked. 6. dear, the duty is painful, yet tender. 7. Compels. Justify the 



LYCIDAS A^-Jl 

singular verb. ii. lofty rhyme, rather extravagant praise. King, thougli he 
wrote verses (fairly good ones in Latin), was, after all, no poet. 12. bear, 
bier. 13. welter to. Meaning? 14. melodious tear, memorial poem, elegy. 

What is the rhyme and metre of this poem as a whole ? Point out some 
lines not of the prevailing metre and see if you can ascertain the poetic value 
or effect of the deviations. (On Elegy, see Introduction, p. xcviii.) 

15-22. The address to the Muses. 15. Sacred Well. This is generally 
taken to mean the Muses' birthplace, — the Pierian fount at the foot of 
Olympus. See CI. D. or CI. M., p. 455. 18. COy, hesitating and unwilling. 
19. Muse, poet, so called because so inspired. 20. lucky, well-omened. 
my destin'd urn, the urn destined to hold my ashes, when I, lil^e Lycidas, 
am dead. 

23-36. A stanza tilled with references to Milton's college life, expressed 
in the metaphor of the pastoral. In this connection, Masson says, " The hill 
is, of course, Cambridge ; the joint feeding of the flocks is companionship in 
study; the rural ditties are academic iambics and elegiacs; and old Damoe- 
tas is probably Dr. Chappell " — the tutor of both King and Milton. In this 
manner suggest a meaning for ' fountain,' ' shade,' ' rill,' ' high lawns,' etc. 
25. lawns: see note on Z,'^//^^. (71). 26. opening eyelids. Explain the 
figure. 27. a field. Here 'a' is a weakened form of the preposition on. 

28. What time, equivalent to at the time when, thus making 'heard' (27) 
intransitive, and explaining 1. 28 as an adverbial clause. 28. gray-fly. This 
is the trumpet fly, a species of botfly, which, by the motion of its wings, makes 
a droning sound, especially in hot or sultry weather. Hence, 'sultry horn.' 

29. with, at the time of. 30. the star, Hesperus, the name given to Venus 
when it appears as the evening star. See note on Coinus (93). 31. Towards 
. . . wheel. What time of night would this be ? 33. oaten flute, the reed 
pipe or flute of the shepherd ; but what does it stand for here ? 34. Satyrs 
and Fauns : see CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 77, 89. To what do they here refer ? 
36. Damaetas, a common name in classic pastoral. See Masson's note above. 

37-49. Contrast the happiness of active life in the last stanza with the 
heavy sadness of this. 40. gadding vine. Explain the adjective. 44. joyous 
leaves. Why 'joyous'? 45. canker, the cankerworm. 46. taint-worm, 
a small red spider. 47. gay wardrop. Why ' gay wardrobe ' ? 48. white 
thorn, the hawthorn. 

50-63. Except for local names and color, this passage is a close imitation 
of the first idyl of Theocritus and of the tenth eclogue of Virgil. 50. Nymphs. 
Were these zvood 7tymphs {CI. D. or CI. M., p. 77) or A/uses ( CI. D. or CI. M., 
pp. 71-72)? 52. the steep, some mountain in Wales, where the Druids are 
supposed to be buried. 54. Mona, the Roman name of Anglesey, a steep, 
high, and thickly wooded island off the coast of Wales. Why ' shaggy ' ? 
55. Deva, the river Dee, between England and Wales. Chester, the port 
from which King sailed (see Milton's argument at head of poem), is on this 
river, wisard stream. The river was supposed to possess supernatural 
qualities. 56. Ay me ! I fondly dream. What makes this line so effective ? 



474 NOTES TO MILTON 

fondly, in its primary meaning, foolishly. Notice that the object of 
' dream ' is the interrupted speech in the following line. 58-63. What . . . 
shore. He shows that the ' nymphs ' could have done nothing, had they 
' been there,' by recalling the powerlessness of Calliope, chief of the Muses 
{CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 138, 185) to save her own son Orpheus from his 
terrible death. Read the story of this death in CI. D. or CI. i1/., pp. 1S7-188. 
58. Orpheus. Give the syntax. 6i. rout. Who composed this ' rout,' and 
why did they make a ' roar ' ? 63. Lesbian shore, upon which, according 
to the story, the head of the bard at last floated. 

64-84. The first digression of the poem. Does it pay, the poet asks, 
to strive after and attain poetic ideals, when the applause of the world is not 
for such effort, but rather for the superficial and trivial? Lines 65-66 refer to 
the true poet, while 11. 68-69 have reference to the more popular, second-rate 
lyric writers of the day. It is but fair to add that some critics believe that 
Milttm is making a contrast, not between two kinds of poets, but between a 
life of poetic effort and one of mere pleasure. 67. use, are accustomed to 
do. 68-69. Amaryllis and Neaera, shepherdesses of the classic pastoral, 
the dalliance with whom typifies a life, frivolous, self-indulgent, uninspired 
by ideals. 70. Fame . . . spur. In what sense is fame a ' spur ' ? 71. last 
infirmity. After all other infirmities have been conquered by the ' noble 
minds,' a love of fame still survives. 73-76. But . . . life. Explain. Note 
that Fate, Atropos (C/. D. or CI. M., p. 72), is so merciless in this act as to seem 
a ' Fury.' But why ' blind ' ? 76-84. But . . . meed. Apollo, god of song 
and of the true poet, here speaks. 76. praise. Give the syntax. 77, trem- 
bling, a participle, modifying the substantive idea in the possessive ' my,' i.e. 
the ears of me trembUng. 79. glistering foil, a plate of shining metal 
placed under a jewel to increase its brightness. Explain the metaphor as 
applied to fame. 81. by, here a very important word. What relation does 
it express? 

85-102. Neptune sends his herald, Triton, to ascertain where lies the 
responsibility for Lycidas's death. But first the poet acknowledges to the 
spirit of the pastoral that, in listening to the voice of Phoebus, he has for 
the moment put aside the ' oat,' or pastoral pipe. The address to ' Arethuse ' 
{CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 142-145), a river of Ortygia, an island off Sicily, sug- 
gests the Greek writer of pastorals, — Theocritus of Sicily ; while 'Mincius,' 
a stream of northern Italy, calls up the image of Virgil, who lived upon its 
banks. 87. higher mood, than the pastoral can express. 90. plea. Ex- 
plain. 91. fellon. Why 'felon winds' ? 93. of rugged wings, a descrip- 
tive phrase. Why 'rugged'? 96. Hippotades. Note the Greek patronymic 
for /Eolus, king of the winds (son of Ilippotas) : see CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 73, 
526. 99. Panope, one of the fifty Nereids : see CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 85, 526. 
loi. Built in th' eclipse, etc., and hence ill-omened. 

103-107. Really a separate stanza, although not so printed in the origi- 
nal. 103. Camus, the presiding deity of the river Cam, and hence repre- 
senting Cambridge [with Cam + bridge, compare Ox (or 6^^/^, a river) -\- ford'\. 



LYCIDAS 475 

The Cam is a sluggish river filled with river weeds and sedges. 104. mantle, 
bonnet: see note on L'Alleg. (62). 105. figures dim, markings on the sedge 
leaf. 106. sanguine, in its radical sense (from Lat. 5rt«^«/5, blood), flower, 
the hyacinth. For the story of Hyacinthus, and the markings on the flower 
named after him, see CI. D. or CI. Af., pp. 1 20-1 21. WOe, the Greek word 
dl (alas), inscribed upon the petals of the hyacinth, and expressing the sorrow 
of Phoebus. 107. pledge, sometimes, as here, means offspring, or child, 
since children were once often given as hostages or pledges. See the intro- 
duction to these notes for King's close association with his university. 

108-131. This second digression is a very remarkable passage. The 
young poet, with intense scorn, denounces the corruption of the Church and 
clergy of his day, and foreshadows the spirit of the Milton who, a few years 
later, was to aid the Puritan rebellion with his stern, controversial prose. 
109. pilot . . . lake: see Matthew iv. 18. no. massy (massive) keyes, 
carried by St. Peter as a symbol of his function: see Matthew xvi. 19. 
114. Anow, enow, enough, bellies' sake, material welfare. 115. Creep, in- 
trude, climb. Discriminate between these three ways of invading the min- 
istry. For a very full and careful explanation of this whole passage, see 
Ruskin's Sesame and Lilies, toward the end of the first third of the essay. 
117. scramble . . . feast, press forward to the allotment of church endow- 
ments. What is meant by ' the worthy bidden guest ' ? 119. Blind mouthes. 
As Ruskin points out, this striking metaphor indicates the very antithesis of a 
true clergyman. These men are ' blind,' and are ' mouths' open for the feeding; 
whereas they should be spiritual overseers — bishops, and feeders of their flocks 
— pastors. Look up the derivation of bishop and of pastor. 1 19-120. that 
. . . sheep-hook. What does the clause modify ? 122. What . . . sped. 
Explain each of these three sentences. 123. lean and flashy songs, unsat- 
isfying and insipid sermons. What is the syntax of ' songs ' ? 124. scrannel, 
thin. 125. hungry, for what ? 126. wind and rank mist they draw (draw 
in, inhale), the vapid and unsound teachings. 127. Rot . . . spread. 
What does this mean ? 128. grim woolf. By the 'wolf,' Milton undoubt- 
edly meant the Church of Rome, which was every day gaining new converts 
from the ' sheepfold ' of the English Church, with no one to object; for the 
English archbishop. Laud, is said to have leaned toward Catholicism. 
130. two-handed engine, perhaps more discussed than any other expres- 
sion in Milton's works. ' Engine ' in his time was used as in our phrase " engine 
of death." Accordingly, it has been taken to mean an axe (see Mattheiv iii. 
10), a sword (see Revelation i. 16), the two houses of Parliament (the word 
' engine ' was sometimes used in Milton's time to mean Parliament), the Old 
and the New Testament, and various other things. The meaning in general 
is, however, plain, that the time of final retribution is at hand. 

132-151. Though not set off in the original text, these lines really form 
the next stanzaic division. 132-133. Return . . . streams, another ac- 
knowledgment of a digression from the true pastoral : cf. 11. 85-87. Alpheus, 
poetically connected with Arethusa : see CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 142-145. 



476 NOTES TO MILTON 

For this and Sicilian Muse, see note on 11. 85-102. dread voice. Whose 
was the voice that had shrunk his streams, and what does the latter phrase 
mean? 136. use, obsolete in this sense, 57/3., to have one's dwelling place. 
137. Of shades, etc., modifies 'whispers.' 138. swart star, the Dog Star 
which makes vegetation brown or swarthy. Explain connection here. 139. 
quaint enameld eyes. Justify the adjectives. 140. honied showres. Why 
'honeyed'? 142-150. Bring . . . tears. In this passage notice the apt- 
ness of Milton's adjectives. 142. rathe, an old positive, of which rather 
(originally meaning earlier) was the comparative. 144. jeat, jet. 151. lau- 
reat herse. "The hearse was a platform, decorated with black hangings, 
and containing an effigy of the deceased. Laudatory verses (' laureate' ) were 
attached to it with pins, wax, or paste." (Jerram, quoting from Stanley.) 
Look up the derivation and history of ' hearse,' showing its growth from a 
harrow to a carriage for the dead. 

152-164. 156. Hebrides: islands off the west coast of Scotland. 158. 
monstrous world, world of monsters. 159. moist vows, tears and prayers. 
160. fable of Bellerus old, the land where a Cornish giant, Bellerus, was 
fabled to have lived. Milton seems to have coined this name from Bellerium, 
the Latin word for Land's End, Cornwall. 161. great Vision of the guarded 
mount. Tradition reports that the archangel Michael was once seen sitting 
on and guarding a Cornish mountain. Here he is represented with his face 
turned toward the strongholds of Namancos and Bayona, situated in north- 
western Spain, opposite Land's End. The poet begs the archangel to with- 
draw his eyes from Spain and fix them upon the watery grave of Lycidas. 

164. Dolphins. For their sympathy with a poet, see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 26. 
165-185. A burst of triumph, as the poet realizes that, after all, the 

grave has no real sting. Like the 'day star,' or sun, which seems to sink 
into the ocean, this sinking is only to be followed by a glorious resurrection. 

165. shepherds. Who is meant ? 166. your sorrow. Explain. 170. new- 
spangled ore. Explain this with reference to the sun. 173. might of Him, 
etc.: see Matthezv xiv. 25. 174-175. Where . . . laves. Put into prose 
order, noting that the clause modifies mounted. 175. nectar pure. Why 
with ' nectar ' ? 176. unexpressive (inexpressible) nuptial song: see A'ev- 
elalion xix. 6-9. 177. kingdoms meek. Explain the adjective. 181. wipe 
the tears. Isaiah xxv 8 ; Revelation vii. 7, 183. Genius of the shore. 
According to an ancient belief the spirit of any one who was drowned would 
thereafter guard the place of his death as a protecting ' genius.' Note here 
and throughout the poem the freedom with which Milton turns from Christian 
to pagan imagery. 

186-193. Observe the calm repose of these last lines — the same placid- 
ity that often marks the close of a stirring epic. 186. uncouth. What is 
the meaning here ? See DAlleg. (5) and note. Who is this ' uncouth 
swain'? 186-191. Thus . . . bay. He had been singing this pastoral 
song all day. 188. quills, reeds, or oaten pipes of the shepherd. Their 
stops are the vent-holes over which the fingers of the musician play. But 



coMUS 477 

why 'tender '? i8g. Dorick. Doric was the rural dialect used by Theocri- 
tus and other Greek writers of pastoral poetry. 190. stretch'd out all the 
hills. Explain this line. 192. twitch'd. We can imagine the shepherd 
drawing his blue mantle around him as he feels the sudden chill of evening. 
193. To-morrow . . . new. What meaning may this line have in reference to 
Milton's life ? Indicate best lines in this poem. (See Introduction, p. cvi.) 
Comment upon the metre and the tone-qualities of 11. 1-14 ; upon the 
poetic figures of 11. 103-131, and the derived or memory-images of 11. 132-151. 
Comment upon the charms of sound-sequence in the stanza of 11. 186-193. 



The masque, or mask, was a form of dramatic entertainment introduced 
from Italy into England during the early part of the sixteenth century. We 
find little mention of it, however, until the time of Queen Elizabeth ; but 
from that period it rose steadily in favor with court and nobility. During the 
reign of James II the masque attained the summit of its excellence, note- 
worthy not only on account of the magnificence of its staging and the beauty 
of its scenic effects, but also from its genuine value as a form of literature. 
Its rank in this respect was largely due to the scholarly dramatist, Ben Jonson, 
who, by writing some thirty, firmly established his reputation as the greatest 
masque writer that England has produced. From his time on the music and 
dancing, which formed the chief attraction of the earlier productions, were 
made subordinate to the literary element — the beautiful expression of lofty 
thought. The chief points of difference between the regular drama and the 
masque are as follows: (i) The masque is much shorter than the ordinary 
drama, has much less action, fewer characters, and less character develop- 
ment. (2) It was produced on a very elaborate scale, thus contrasting 
strongly with the simple stage effects of the Elizabethan drama. The spec- 
tacular element, indeed, was not infrequently devised by Inigo Jones, the 
famous court architect and decorator of Jonson's time ; and in many in- 
stances the play is estimated to have cost thousands of pounds for a single 
production. (3) The masque was almost always intended for a special occa- 
sion, and was produced as a sort of private theatrical in which the characters 
were frequently taken by ladies and gentlemen of the nobility. (4) The 
masque, unlike the drama, is very often concerned with the working out of 
some hidden allegorical meaning, and therefore is filled with speeches far too 
long for a drama of action. (5) In the later, as well as in the early masques, 
music and dancing played a much more prominent part than in the regular 
drama. (For Drama, see Introduction, p. xcviii.) 

In 1634, when Comns was produced, the masque was at its height. The 
circumstances which led to this particular production were as follows : the 
Earl of Bridgewater, whom Charles I had appointed Lord President of 
Wales, called upon Henry Lawes, the tutor of his children and the most 
accomplished musical composer of the day, to furnish a masque to celebrate 
his entry upon official residence at Ludlow castle. Lawes thereupon applied 



4/8 NOTES TO MILTON 

for the words of the masque to his intimate friend, Milton, who had already 
during the previous year collaborated with him in the production of another 
masque, the Arcades. Lawes seems to have furnished the poet with an 
account of the event to be graced by the masque, together with the charac- 
ters who were to take part, and also to have composed its music and attended 
to its staging. The character of the attendant spirit was taken by Lawes 
himself — a very interesting fact when we remember his office as tutor in the 
household; for the part of the lady, whom it was the mission of the spirit to 
assist, was taken by the fourteen-year-old daughter of the earl. The two 
brothers were represented by her two younger brothers, Lord Brackley and 
Thomas Egerton. The names of the actors who took the parts of Comus and 
Sabrina are not known. 

While Ben Jonson justly is considered the greatest English masque writer, 
Comus undoubtedly ranks as the greatest of English masques. Though Dr. 
Samuel Johnson was entirely correct in saying that, with its long speeches 
and slow movement, it cannot be deemed a successful drama, this defect 
represents the sum of its limitations. Judged in respect of its allegory, its 
pastoral beauties, its lyric strains, its epic flavor, its lofty philosophical tone, 
its "inevitable" lines or poetic "touchstones," Comus must be regarded as 
one of the most perfect fruits of Milton's genius. The name " Comus " was 
not given to the masque until after the author's death. 

The scenes of the Masque are as follows : — 

L First Scene. — A Wild Wood. [1-658.] 

I. The Introduction, or Prologue (1-92). 2. The Abduction (93-330). 
3. The Rescuers (331-658). 
IL Second Scene. — Palace of Comus. [659-957.] 

I. The Temptation (659-813). 2. The Rescue (814-957). 
in. Third Scene. — Ludlow Castle. [958-1023.] 

I. The Presentation (958-975). 2. The Epilogue (976-1023), 

1-17. The spirit tells who he is, and whence and to whom he comes. 
2. mansion, as in // Fens. (92), see note. 3. insphear'd : see // Pens. 
(88) and note. 4. serene. For accent, see note on 1. 11 below. 7. pester'd, 
probalily comes from the Yx.empetrer,io shackle a horse while at pasture; 
hence clogged, encumbered, pinfold, a shortened form of pound-fold, ex- 
pound (for stray cattle), and fold (for sheep). 10. mortal change, ' mortal ' 
in its radical sense (Lat. mors, death), 11. enthron'd, a dissyllabic word, 
accented on the penult, as was also ' serene,' 1. 4. Milton frequently transfers 
the accent from the ultimate to the penultimate syllable, in words followed by 
a monosyllable or by a longer word accented on the first syllable, sainted 
seats. Observe the boldness with which the poet associates the thoughts 
and images of classical mythology with those of Christianity. See note on 
Zjr. (183). la. be, indicative ; still so used in parts of England. 13. golden 
key : see Lye. (m). 16. ambrosial, in its radical meaning, pertaining to 
the immortals, weeds : see LAlleg. (120) and note. 



COMUS 479 

18-45. The spirit relates the circumstances which have called him to 
earth. 20. Took . . . Jove. For an account of the division of the universe 
among Jupiter (high Jove), Pluto (nether Jove), and Neptune, see CI. D. or 
CI. M., p. 40. Neptune thus gets not only the sea, but also its islands. 
23. unadorned, i.e. not otherwise adorned. 25. By course, in regular 
order. 27. this He, Great Britain. 29. He . . . deities. Instead of con- 
signing this isle to his ' tributary gods,' Neptune has divided it into four parts, 
and intrusted it to the rule of the descendants of the " blue stained Britons," 
as Masson suggests. Or, ' blue haired,' like the more usual green haired, 
may merely refer to the color of the sea. 30. all . . . sun, Wales. 31. A 
noble Peer, the Earl of Bridgewater. See introduction to notes. 33. An 
old . . . nation, the Celts (from whom the Welsh were descended). 
37. perplex't, entangled. For the accent, see note on ' enthron'd,' 1. 11. 
39. passinger. As the old spelling suggests, ' passenger ' is here used in its 
radical sense — one who is passing through. Cf. note on L! Alleg. (91). 
44. What . . . heard. Comus (Gk. komos, a revel), an insignificant 
divinity of the village feast, is but rarely celebrated in poetry, either ancient 
or modern. The genealogy and characteristics here assigned to him are 
coined by Milton. 

46-92. After recounting the ancestry, birth, early life, and magical 
powers of Comus, the spirit indicates the disguise in which he will himself 
presently reappear to aid the wandering Lady. 46-50. Bacchus . . . Circe: 
see CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 76, 318-320. What characteristics would Comus 
naturally inherit from each parent ? 48. After . . . transform'd, after 
the transformation of the Tuscan mariners to dolphins. For this story, see 
r/. il/., pp. 176-178. 49. Coasting. What modify? 50. On Circe's island 
fell, invented mythology: cf. note on fAlleg. (19). 'Circe's island' was 
yEfea : see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 318, or the Odyssey, Book X. 51-52. whose 
charmed cup Whoevei' tasted. Analyze this peculiar construction, showing 
the use of each relative. 53. And . . . swine: see reference above, CI. 
71/., pp. 318-320. What is symbolized by this physical degradation? 54. that. 
For use of 'that' cf. 1. 46, and see note on // Pens. (113). 58. Comus. 
The name signifies carousal or riotous revelry : see note on 1. 44. 60. Cel- 
tick and Iberian fields, i.e. France and Spain. 61. ominous, in its pri- 
mary sense, full of omens. 65. orient, sparkling like the sunrise (Lat. 
oriens, rising). 66. drouth of Phoebus, thirst produced by the sun-god. 
See CI. D. or CI. A/., pp. 59-61. 67. fond : see note on // Fens. (6). 
71. ounce, somewhat like a lynx. Note here (i) that the disfigurement, of 
the head only, is suggestive of a deeper spiritual significance than the mere 
words would indicate ; and (2) that these transformations give fine oppor- 
tunity for striking effects in the staging of the masque. 74-77. Not once 
. . . stie. The saddest part of this degradation is the self-satisfaction which 
accompanies it. 80. Swift . . . star. To what does this line owe its beauty ? 
83. Iris' WOOff, threads running across the texture of the rainbow. For Iris, 
goddess of the rainbow, see 67. D. or Ci. M., p. 73. 84. weeds : see note 



480 NOTES TO MILTON 

on 1. 16. swain, a reference, in the language of pastoral, to Henry Lawes: 
see introduction to notes. 86-88. Who . . . woods. Observe the music of the 
lines and the dainty compliment to the musician : see note on 11. 494- 
496. 88. nor of less faith, i.e. no less faithful than skilled in music. 
90. Likeliest. The appearance of a shepherd in these woods would cause no 
surprise. 

93-144. Discuss the rhyme and metre of this passage, showing how it 
differs from the preceding. Observe the effectiveness of the entry of Comus 
and his rout, as pictured in the stage direction between 11. 92 and 93. 
93. The star. The evening star, Hesperus or Venus : see note on Lye. 
(30). 94. top of heav'n. What does this indicate as to the time of night ? 
96-97. glowing axle . . . stream. The ancients believed that the earth 
was flat, with River Ocean flowing around its borders. Apollo's chariot, 
having flnished its daily journey, sank into this stream, and was each night 
ferried upon it past the northern regions and around to its eastern ' goal,' 
whence it arose next morning : see CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 74, 75. 98-100. For 
slope sun (its beams sloping from beneath the horizon), upward beam, 
dusky pole, and other goal, see the note just above. 105. rosie twine, 
roses entwined, no. grave saws. What is the meaning and derivation of 
'saws' ? III. purer fire. Fire is the element of which the gods are com- 
posed, as contrasted with earth, of which man is made. 112. the starry 
quire. The fiction that the stars and planets in their motions make har- 
mony too sweet to be heard by human ears has always been a favorite with 
the poets. This is " the music of the spheres " : see note to // Fens. (13-16) 
and cf. the Merchant of Venice in Act V : — 

" There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st 
But in his motion Uke an angel sings, 
Still quiring to the young eyed cherubins : 
Such harmony is in immortal souls; 
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it." 

•115. sounds: see Z)/V/. ii6. Now . . . move. The 'morrice' is a dance 
originating among the Moors, whence its name is derived. It was still 
danced in Milton's time at the Robin Hood and May Day festivals. Show 
how the metre of these lines suggests the undulating, rhythmic movement of 
this dance. 121. wakes, night watches or revels. 125. rights, rites. 
126. 'Tis only . . . sin. Discuss the ethics of Comus, as shown in this line. 
129. Dark-veiled Cotytto, a Thracian goddess of licentiousness, whose 
orgies took place only at night. Hence ' dark-veiled,' and hence the next four 
lines. 131. woom, womb. 132. Stygian : see note to Z'^//(?f. (3). spets, 
spits. 135. Hecat'. For Hecate, the Thracian goddess of witchcraft and 
darkness, see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 84. 139. nice, over-particular, prudish, 
squeamish. Indian steep, because in the East. 141. discry, in its radical 
sense, i.e. proclaim (to the Sun, who in turn will " blab " to the whole world). 



COM us 48 I 

142. solemnity, in its radical sense: see derivation. 143-144. Com . . . 
round: cf. with the couplet in HAlleg. (33-34). 

145-169. Between 11. 144 and 145, the rout of Comus dances a ' measure,' 
or 'light fantastic round.' Having by his arts divined the approach of the 
Lady, he begins to lay his plans against her. 145. different pace. Observe 
how this approaching step of the Lady, different morally as well as physically 
from the dance of Comus's crew, is suggested by a change in the rhyme and 
metre of the passage. 151-153. I shall . . . Circe : see note on 1. 53. 154. 
My . . . air. As stated in the introduction to these notes, the masque, 
unlike all other dramas of the time, made the greatest use of stage effects. 
Here is a good instance. As the actor speaks this Ime, he throws into the 
air some sort of chemical in powdered form — so light that the 'spongy air' 
seems to take it up and hold it in suspense. At the same time this powder is 
ignited, making a bright flash, a ' dazzling spell.' When in his covert (168) 
he evidently repeats this operation, as shown by the Lady's words in 11. 221- 
225. 157. quaint habits, strange attire: see note ors. LJAlleg. (120). 161. 
glozing, flattering, deluding. 165. vertue, power ; used here, as frequently, 
in its radical sense. See derivation, magick dust : see note on 1. 154 
above. 167. gear, business. Cf. " for this gear " ^Aw/irt^i" of Venice, I, i, 
no. 168. fairly, softly. 

170-229. Give theme and substance of each of the parts of this speech. 
^75- granges, barns or granaries. 176. Pan, the god of shepherds and of 
rural life in general. See CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 77, 200. 177. amiss, in the 
wrong way. 179. wassailers, carousers. Give the derivation. 180. inform 
. . . feet. Explain this synecdoche. 184. spreading favour of these pines, 
an example of transference of epithet, often found in Milton. Cf. note on 
II Pens. {iTfi). 189. sad votarist : any sober-minded person who has taken 
a vow (Lat. votuvi) to make a religious pilgrimage ; whence ' palmer.' See 
note on Prologue (13). 190. Phoebus' wain, literally the wagon of the 
Sun. 193. ingag'd (engaged), directed. 195-200. Els . . . traveller. In 
this rather extravagant passage, Milton betrays the influence of the artificial 
later Elizabethan poets. 203. rife, and perfet, prevalent and distinct. 205. 
A thousand fantasies, etc. Lowell terms these lines " that wonderful pas- 
sage in Comiis of the airy tongues — perhaps the most imaginative in 
suggestion Milton ever wrote." The sudden and mysterious silence thus 
fills the mind of the Lady with all kinds of vague apprehension. Notice the 
onomatopoeia of the passage, particularly in the sibilants of 11. 208 and 209. 
212. Conscience, here a trisyllable. Why ? 215. Chastity. Instead of 
the usual " Faith, Hope, and Charity," we have here Faith, Hope, and Chastity. 
This change is significant as indicating the theme of the poem — the praise 
of abstinence, of self-restraint, of personal purity in word and act. This, to 
Milton, was almost a religion. 216. ye. Note the nominative form ' ye,' here 
used as an objective — a frequent usage in Elizabethan English. 217. Su- 
preme, here accented on the first syllable, t' whom. Pronounce as one 
syllable. 218. slavish . . . vengeance. Observe Milton's philosophy here, 



482 NOTES TO MILTON 

viz., God allows evil in his world, only that he may use it as a means of punish- 
ment. 222. silver lining. This has usually been taken to be actually a rift 
in the clouds. But is it not possible that it is one of the ' dazzling spells ' 
of Comus ? The gleam over the tufted grove might easily have been thus 
caused ; and the delusion of the Lady would have already commenced when 
she conceived the evil spell to be a message from on high. Then, cheated by 
the 'blear illusion,' she conceives the sorcerer to be a 'gentle shepherd.' 
See note on 1. 154. 228. new-enliv'n'd. This is a favorite species of com- 
pound adjective with Milton, formed from an adverb (though adjective in 
form) plus a participle. 229. they, the brothers. 

230-243. Study the word-sounds and the metre of this song. 230. Echo : 
see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 206, for the story of Echo and Narcissus. Why does 
the Lady direct her song to Echo? 231. airy shell. Echo had faded away 
until she was only a voice, and, as such, an inhabitant of the atmosphere 
((j'/w^ + 5//ii';-^, meaning airy environment or shell). 232. Meander's mar- 
gent green, the green margins or banks of Meander, a river in Asia Minor, 
noted for its winding course: cf. the verb meander. 241. Queen . . . 
Sphear, i.e. queen of speech or dialogue, derived from (?'.£". 'daughter of) 
the ' airy shell ' from which she comes. 242-243. So mai'st . . . harmonies, 
If thou wilt but aid me, thou shalt hereafter lend the beauty of an Echo 
{i.e. 'resounding grace') to 'Heaven's harmonies' (the "music of the 
spheres"). See note on 1. 112. 242. translated, in its radical meaning (Lat. 
trans + latum, from fero) . 

244-270. Observe how Comus has changed his attitude toward the Lady 
since he has heard her voice. 244-245. mortal . . . ravishment. Notice 
how the poet contrives to compliment his friend Lawes, who wrote the music 
of the song, and the Lady Alice, who sang it : see note on 11. 494-496. 
248. his, its, referring to 'something holy': see note on // Pens. (128). 
250. empty-vaulted. Explain. 250-251. smoothing ... smil'd. 'Silence' 
has ' wings ' which bear the song, thus allowing its soft and caressing cadence 
(' fall') to smooth the plumage (' down ') of the raven, Night, till it is full of 
quiet content ('smiled'). 253. Circe : see note on 1. 50. Sirens three. 
Classic mythology mentions only two Sirens : see CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 86, 
320-321. 254. flowery kirtl'd Naiades, having their skirts interwoven or 
twined with flowers. For Naiads, see CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 87, 204. 
256. prison'd soul : a prolepsis, as is frequent in Milton. They would make 
the soul prisoner. 257. lap: r/ Z'.-Z/Zc^. (136). Elysium. For this abode 
of the blessed, see CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 81-82. Scylla wept. Why remark- 
able ? See CI. D. or CI. ^1/., pp. 86, 218, 219, 321. 258. barking waves, 
because of the barking dogs which helped make up the body of Scylla. 
259. fell Charybdis, the cruel monster of the whirlpool, who seized upon 
such hapless sailors as were trying to escape Scylla. See CI. D. or CI. M., 
pp. 321-322. 260-264. Yet they . . . now. How do the words of Comus 
prove the song of the Lady to be on a far higher plane than the songs of 
Circe and the Sirens ? 267. Unless the goddess, i.e. unless thou be the 
goddess. 268. Pan or Silvan: see notes on 1. 176 and II Pens. (134). 



COM us 483 

271-330. Here Comus, in his character of shepherd, by proffering his 
aid in finding the brothers of the Lady, induces her to put herself undtr his 
protection. 271. ill is lost that praise, That praise is lost, unfortunately: 
cf. the Latin phrase vude perditur. 277-290. What chance . . . lips. The 
alternation of speeches of a single line is called stichomythia, and is frequent in 
Greek tragedy. 279. neer-ushering, i.e. if they were attending you closely. 
287-288. Imports . . . guides, i.e. Does their loss concern you, except 
as necessary guides ? 290. Hebe's: see Z'^/Zf^. (29) and note. 291. what 
time, at the time when : cf. the quo tempore of the Latin. 293. swink't, 
tired from his labor : cf. Prologue (531 and 540) and notes, hedger, though 
strictly one who cares for hedges (used everywhere in England as fences), 
it here, no doubt, refers to any farm laborer. 301. plighted: see note on 
II Pens. (57). 312. Dingle, deep and narrow valley; from the same root as 
dimple (literally, a little dip). Look up derivation, dell (^cf dale). How 
does 'dell' differ from 'dingle'? 313. bosky, another form of bushy. 
bourn, burn (Scotch), brook, comes from the A.-S. word meaning primarily 
a spring, and must not be confused with botirn, boundary, which is a word 
of French derivation. 314. ancient, familiar through long association. 
315. stray attendance, strayed attendants, a metonymy where the abstract 
is used for the concrete. 317-318. or . . . rowse. The lark is roosting 
on its 'thatched pallet' or low nest of straw. For rouse, cf. 'begin his 
flight,' LAlleg. (41). 322. honest-offer'd ; see note on 1. 228. 322- 
325. And . . . named : cf Spenser, in the Faerie Queene, at the beginning of 

Book VI : — 

"Of Court, it seems, men courtesie doe call, 
For that it there most useth to abound ; " 

also Prologue (132) and note. 326-328. In ... it. I cannot be worse off 
than I am now. 329. square . . . strength. Proportion my trial to my 
strength. 

331-342. 332. benizon, from the same root as benediction, and of 
similar meaning. 333. visage: cf II Pens. (13) and Lye. (62). amber: 
cf L'Alleg. (61). 334. disinherit, i.e. dispossess and take the place of. 
335. double night. Why double ? 336. influence, in its radical meaning. 
See note on L'Alleg. (122). 337. taper. That this is vocative, i.e. nomina- 
tive by address, is proved by ' thy,' 1. 340. 338. rush-candle. A primitive 
candle made by dipping rushes in grease, wicker hole. A hole in the clay- 
covered wickerwork, or crossed twigs, of which the lowly hut is made. 
341. star of Arcady. A star in the constellation of the Great Bear. See 
Areas in CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 94-95. 342. Cynosure. See note on UAlleg. 
(80). The Tyrian sailors used to steer by the pole star. 

342-358. 344. watled cotes, sheep pens made of interlaced twigs. Cote 
is now found in such compounds as dove-cote. Cf. note on L'Alleg. (120). 
345. oaten stops: cf Zy<r. (33, 88, and 188). 349. innumerous, innumer- 
able. 351. her, the personal pronoun used for the reflexive, as frequently in 
poetry. 355. head. Syntax ? fraught. Of what verb is this the perfect 



484 NOTES TO MILTON 

participle, and what is the distinction between fraught and freighted? 
358. savage hunger or of savage heat. Metonymies, abstract for concrete. 
" The hunger of savage beasts or the lust of men as savage as they." (Newton, 
quoted by Huntington.) 

359-385. 359. over-exquisite, over fanciful. 360. To cast, to fore- 
cast the nature of, etc. 361. grant they be so, i.e. suppose they do turn 
out to be what you imagine. 362. forestall his date of grief, " cross a 
bridge before he gets to it." 366. so to seek, so at a loss. 367. unprinci- 
pl'd, unversed. 370. Not being. A very rare construction; a nominative 
absolute with the nominative omitted and its qualifying participle expressed. 
373-375. Vertue . . . sunk. Possibly Milton has Spenser's line in mind. 
See in this volume Faerie Queene (144). These may be called "inevitable," 
or supremely poetic lines. Explain why. 375-380. And Wisdom's self . . . 
impair'd. Pattison, in his life of Milton, professes to see in these lines an 
allusion, perhaps unconscious, to the poet's own life at Horton, where he was 
living when this poem was written. 376. seeks to, has recourse to. 377. Con- 
templation, five syllables for the sake of the metre. Show why ' Contempla- 
tion ' is Wisdom's ' best nurse ' : cf II Pens. (54). 378. plumes. Explain the 
figure. 379. various bussle of resort: cf. ' busy hum of men,' LAlleg. (118). 
380. all to rufQ'd. One of the most difficult expressions of the poem. 
Though Milton uses no hyphen, editors have explained that one may have 
been intended, thus fixing the meaning as either ali-to (altogether, or exceed- 
ingly) riiffled or all to-rufled (' to ' being an intensive prefix very common in 
Old and Middle English). Still another interpretation is made by regarding 
' to ' as the adverb too. Which seems the most probable interpretation ? 
381-385. He . . . dungeon. These are, perhaps, the finest lines of the poem. 
They are worthy to be included in Matthew Arnold's list of " poetic touch- 
stones." 382. i' th' center, of the earth, where all is physical blackness. 
385. Himself is his own dungeon, a favorite thought of Milton, often 
repeated in his poems. Explain it fully. 

385-407. 386. musing Meditation. Explain the metonymy, affects, 
honestly likes; not, as now, pretends to like. 389. senat-house. Why is 
this given as a symbol of absolute safety ? 390. weeds : cf. 1. 84 ; also 
L\4lleg. (120) and notes. 393-395. Hesperian tree . . . uninchanted eye. 
For an account of this tree of the golden apples, and of its dragon guard, see 
CI. D. or CI. M., p. 87. 395. uninchanted, incapable of being enchanted. 
Cf. 'unreproved,' LAlleg. (40), and note. 401. Danger . . . Opportunity. 
I cannot believe, says the Second Brother, that any one who is dangerous 
will close his eyes to his opportunity. 404. recks . . . not. I am not con- 
cerned. 407. unowned, unprotected. Describe and explain the figures of 
speech (385-407). 

407-417. Introductory to the long speech of the Elder Brother. 
408. Inferr, argue. 409. without, beyond. 410-41 1. equal . . . event, 
where the outcome is in the balance. 413. squint. Explain the fitness of 
the adjective. 



COM us 485 

418-475. This is the passage in which is expressed the central idea of 
the masque, the exaltation of chastity or personal purity, a virtue which, as 
Masson says, " was a cardinal idea with Milton through his whole life, and 
perhaps the central idea of his personal philosophy in early manhood." 
420. chastity: see note on 1. 215. 421. compleat. For pronunciation, see 
Introduction, p. Ixvi. 423. unharbour'd, affording no shelter. 426. bandite. 
A word just then entering English from the Italian : hence its form, moun- 
taneer, here somewhat like brigand. 430. unblench't, unfaltering. 431. Be 
it . . . presumption. Show the force of the proviso. 433. In fog . . • 
fen, the same four elements as mentioned in // Pens. (94). 434-435- stubborn 
. . . curfeu time. Ghosts whose sins had not yet been atoned for were 
popularly supposed to wander from curfew time till dawn; hence unlaid: not 
yet exorcised. For ' curfew,' see note on // /"^wj-. (74). 436. No goblin . . . 
mine. According to the superstition, mines were peopled by black goblins 
or gnomes. 438. ye, the regular nominative plural. But cf. 11. 216 and 513. 
439. old schools of Greece. Thus the speaker turns from mediaeval to classi- 
cal mythology. 441. Dian, for Diana, goddess of the chase, see CI. D. or 
CI. M., pp. 63-64. 442. silver-shafted. Explain. On compound epithets, 
see note on UAlleg. (13). 443. brinded. Look up brindled, the more com- 
mon form. 444. pard. Look up and cf. leopard (from Lat. leo, lion -\- pai-d). 
445. bolt, arrow. Explain this interpretation of Diana's bow (441-446), and 
likewise show how the poet interprets the shield of Minerva (447-452). 
447. snaky-headed Gorgon shield. On the Gorgons and their serpent-cov- 
ered heads, see CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 225, 231. For Minerva, her shield and 
its powers, see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 56. 449. congeal'd. For pronunciation, 
see note on 1. ii. 455. lackey, attend and minister to her. 457. vision. 
Determine pronunciation by scansion. 459. oft, here an adjective, meaning 
frequent. 461. The . . . mind. Explain the metaphor here and the 
thought of 11. 456-463; also the converse of the proposition (463-469), show- 
ing how soul elevates body or body degrades soul. Milton bases his thought 
on a passage in Plato's Phcpdo and on the scriptural imagery, — the body being 
the temple of the Holy Ghost, / Corinthians, iii. 17. 468. Imbodies, and 
imbrutes, becomes material {i.e. gross) and brutish. 469. divine : For pro- 
nunciation, see note on 1. 11. 474. sensualty. Observe that this form, now 
obsolete, is required by the metre. Are any of the lines in this speech worthy 
to be called supremely poetic, i.e. " touchstones " in Matthew Arnold's applica- 
tion of the term? (See INTRODUCTION, p. cvi.) 

476-489. 477-480. harsh, crabbed, dull, nectar'd, crude. Show the 
especial precision and propriety with which each of these epithets is used. 
482. Methought. This does not come from the same root as the verb think, 
but from another A.-S." verb thincan, to appear. Me is a dative like the 
German mir. Hence the verb retains its radical meaning, — it appeared to 
me. 483. night-founder'd, i.e. swallowed up in night, as a ship might be in 
the sea. 487. He hallow (I'll halloo). Note that this hne, as well as many 
others (304, 321, 342, 385, 407, 416, 4S0, etc.), is divided between two 



486 NOTES TO MILTON 

speakers, the words of both being combined to make up the iambic 
pentameter. 

490-512. 491. iron stakes, swords. 494. Thrysis, a common name 
for a shepherd in pastoral poetry : cf. DAlleg. (83). As to the character 
which the spirit assumes, cf. 11. 84-85. 494-496. whose artful strains 
. . . dale. These lines are intended as complimentary to the musical ability 
of Milton's friend, Lawes. See introduction to notes. It should be remem- 
bered that this masque was written for a special occasion, and that the poet, 
knowing who are going to take part in its production, is thus able to pay 
many pretty compliments. Cf. 11. 31, 84-91, 244-270, 297-299, 556-562. 
The pronounced hyperbole is noteworthy. The 'strains' have such art that 
each wavelet of the brook, as it passes by, holds back to hear them, thus 
causing succeeding ripples, impelled by their momentum, to ' huddle ' or crowd 
in upon it. The sweetness of the sound even adds to the fragrance of the 
flowers. 495-512. The . . . shew. In these hnes rhymed couplets are 
substituted for the normal blank verse. These rhymes suggest music, and 
therefore aid in the compliment to Lawes. 501. heir . . . his next joy, 
addressed first to the elder, then to the younger son. But some editors think 
that 'next' means nearest, or dearest, and that both salutations are to the elder 
brother. 503. stealth, in its original meaning of thing stolen. 506. To, as 
compared with. 512. shew. Look up the present pronunciation of this word. 

513-580. In this passage the Attendant Spirit reveals the plight of the 
Lady, 513. ye, here a dative, though strictly a nominative form: cf. note on 
1. 216. 515. sage poets. Homer and Virgil, no doubt, since the subjects after- 
ward mentioned are 'storied ' (related) in their epics (' high immortal verse '). 
517. Chimeras. Look up this fire-breathing monster in CI. D. ox Cl.M., 
p. 233. 519. be: see note on 1. 12. 520. navil, centre. 526. many murmurs 
mixt, i.e. mixed while incantations were being muttered over it. pleasing 
poison. Explain. 526-530. With . . . face. Explain the syntax in this 
passage. For remarks on syntax study, see note on IJAlleg. (45). 529. un- 
moulding reason's mintage, a very consistent metaphor. The face is a coin 
which has been stamped ('charactered') with the image of reason, and the 
potions of Comus melt or unmould this coin. 530. character'd, used in its 
radical sense, engraved or stamped. The word is accented on the second sylla- 
ble. Cf. for meaning and accent, Shakespeare's Jtilius Ccisar, II, i, 308. 
" All the charactery of my sad brows." 531-532. crofts . . . glade. "The 
enclosed fields on the slopes that ascend from this wood in the hollow." 
(Masson.) 533. monstrous: see note ox\. Lye. (158). 534. stabl'd, prob- 
ably in their dens, though some editors interpret it, " which have got into 
the sheepfold." 535. Hecate: see note on 1. 135. 539. unweeting, an 
obsolete form of unwitting. 540. by then. Supply the relative adverb, 
making the phrase, l)y then when, i.e. by the time when. 542. dew besprent. 
' Besprent ' is poetic for besprinkled. 546. pleasing fit of melancholy is en- 
tirely intelligil)le when ' melancholy ' is understood in the same sense as used in 
// Pense7-oso : cf. II Pens. (12) and note. 548. ere a close. A close, as a musi- 



COM us 487 

cal term, signifies the end of a strain. 552. an unusual stop, previously 
seen in 1. 145. 553. drowsie frighted, these epithets are curiously used. 
' Drowsy ' is the normal characteristic of the steeds, since they draw the 
litter of sleep ; while ' frighted ' is their temporary condition from hearing the 
noise of Comus's rout. Some of the editions have droiusy-flighted (flying 
drowsily), and still others drowsy-freighted (weighed down with sleep). The 
student should decide among these three possible readings. 554. close- 
curtain'd Sleep. Explain the force of the figure. 555. a soft and solemn- 
breathing sound : see 11. 230-243. Explain the force of the compound 
epithet. 556. Rose like . . . perfumes. This is one of those rare similes 
in which the language of one of the senses (as hearing) is applied to another 
sense (as smell). Explain this figure. 558-560. wished she might . . . 
displac't. Silence is willing to cease to exist {i.e. ' deny her nature '), provided 
she may be ever ('still') displaced by such sweet sounds. 560. I was all 
ear. Explain and classify the figures of poetry and logical artifice in this and 
the succeeding lines. (See Introduction, pp. xliii, xlvii.) 561-562. that 
might . . . Death, might bring the dead to Hfe. 565. Amaz'd, here mean- 
ing overwhelmed by fear. 568. lawns: see note on L'Alleg. (71). 572. 
certain signes. For explanation, see 11. 644-646. 578. Ye. Compare this 
proper use of the word with the two peculiar uses in 11. 216 and 513. It will 
be seen that the usage in Milton's time had not become fixed. 

580-609. 581. tripple knot. What is represented by each of the three 
aUies against the Lady? 585. period, sentence. 586. for me, as far as I am 
concerned. 591. most harm, to be most harmful. 592. happy trial, fortu- 
nate outcome. 594. when, until. 595-597. Gather'd . . . self-consum'd. 
Explain. 598. pillar'd firmament, the sky, supported, according to the be- 
lief of the ancients, on pillars, thus serving as a roof for the earth. 602. let 
him be girt, a subordinate concessive clause, though he be girt (sur- 
rounded). 603. griesly (grisly). Distinguish from grizzly by looking up 
derivation and meaning of each word, legions, a trisyllable : see note on 
1. 377. 604. Acheron : see CI. D. or CI. A/., p. 78. Though strictly a river of 
the underworld, it is here used to denote the whole region. What poetic 
figure is this ? Explain why 'sooty flag.' 605. Harpyes and Hydras. Give 
syntax. For Harpies, see Ci. D. or CI. M., p. 86. monstrous forms : see note 
on Lye. (158). 607. purchase (from an old French verb pour + chacier, to 
pursue and obtain). Hence, according to the original meaning, the noun 
' purchase,' the thing obtained, might stand for a thing secured either by fair 
means (as in its modern sense) or by unfair means (such as Comus here 
used). Accordingly the word here means prey, spoil. 

609-658. 610. yet, the word is equivalent to, I will admit in spite of 
what I am going to say. 611. stead, service. 617. As to make, as to 
learn the facts which enable you to tell this. 619. a certain shepherd lad. 
This is generally considered to be a reference to Charles Diodati, one of 
Milton's closest friends, whose knowledge of botany is elsewhere testified 
to and admired by the poet. The subsequent lines (623-628) may easily be 



488 NOTES TO MILTON 

taken to refer to the intercourse between the two young men. The botanist 
would ask his friend to recite his poetry (' sing,' in terms of the pastoral), and 
in return would teach him the secrets of his science. The probability of the 
allusion is strengthened by the fact that Diodati was a physician, and that the 
plants discussed are referred to as 'simples' (medicinal herbs), ' vertuous ' 
(powerful) plants, 'healing herbs,' etc. 630. me, a dative, for me. 633. 
Bore. Supply a subject for this verb. 634. like esteem'd, esteemed in the 
same degree as known, i.e. not at all. 635. clouted shoon, patched shoes, 
a phrase very common in early English poetry. 636. Moly, the magical 
plant by which Ulysses was able to resist the wiles of Circe : see CI. D., CI. 
M., p. 319, or Odyssey, X. 638. He: see 1. 630. Hsemony. Both the 
plant and its name are Milton's invention. He doubtless coined the word 
from Hivmonia, the Latin name for Thessaly, land of magic. 640. mildew 
blast, i.e. a 'blast' or wind, such as produces 'mildew.' 641. Furies': see 
CI. D. or CI. M., p. 84. apparition. How many syllables and why ? 645. 
disguis'd: see 1. 166. 646. Entered . . . spells. Lime twigs are twigs 
smeared with bird-lime, a very adhesive preparation, used for catching birds. 
Explain the Hgure by which this term is applied to the snares of Comus. 649. 
necromancer's hall. Note the terms applied to Comus : ' necromancer,' ' en- 
chanter,' ' magician,' and ' wizard.' 650. Where if he be : cf. the Latin uhi si 
sit. Such Latin-derived constructions introducing the sentence by a relative 
pronoun or adverb, instead of the more common demonstrative, are very fre- 
quent in Milton. 654. menace. Show whether this is a noun or verb. 
655. vomit smoak. This is told of Cacus, son of Vulcan, in the eighth book 
of the yEneid. 658. bear. Decide whether this is optative (may some angel 
bear), or hortative (let some angel bear), or imperative (as in 1. 337). 

659-690. The first endeavor of Comus to tempt the Lady. 660. ala- 
baster, a material out of which statues were made : cf. the Merchant of 
Venice, I, i, 84. "Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster." 661-662, 
Daphne . . . Apollo. For this story, see CI. D. or CI. A/., pp. 138-140. 
"What is the syntax of ' root-bound ' ? 664. corporal rinde : cf. ' fleshly nook,' 
II Pens. {()2). 668. be: see note on 1. 12. 671. Brisk . . . season. Show 
how images, word sounds, and metre all unite to give freshness to the line. 
672. cordial (Lat. cor, heart), tending to cheer the heart, invigorating. 
julep, a sweet drink flavored with aromatic herbs (from a Persian word 
meaning rose water). 673. his, its : see note on II Pens. (128). 675-676. 
Not that Nepenthes . . . Helena: see Odyssey, IV, 219-230, or CI. D. 
or CI. M., p. 309. After the Trojan War, Helen, daughter of Zeus, became 
reconciled to Menelaiis, and left with him for Sparta. On the voyage, storms 
drove them upon the shores of Egypt, where they were most hospitably re- 
ceived by the king and queen, Thon and Polydamna. The latter, who was 
versed in magic, gave to Helen, as she was departing, this sorrow-dispel- 
ling drink. 685. unexempt condition, the 'refreshment' and ' ease ' (1. 6S7) 
necessary to all mortals, none being exempt. 688. That have been tir'd, 
modifies ' you,' 1. 682. 



COMUS 489 

690-705. 693. was. Why in the singular ? 694. aspects, here 
accented on the last syllable, and meaning countenances. 695. oughly- 
headed, ugly-headed. 696. brew'd inchantments : see 11. 525-526. 698. 
vizor'd falsehood, " falsehood with its vizor, or face-piece, down, to conceal 
its identity." (Thurber.) forgery. Show how this differs from the present 
meaning. 700. lickerish, not liquorish as printed by many editors, nor even 
from the same root as liquor. The word means tempting to the appetite. 
702-705. None . . . appetite. Point out the links in the chain of the Lady's 
argument. 

706-755. 707. budge doctors of the Stoick furr. Originally ' budge ' 
meant the lambskin, dressed with its wool, which was used to edge the gowns 
of scholars. Hence its secondary meaning, as here used, scholastic or solemn. 
Doctors of the Stoic fur are scholars or teachers who follow and advocate the 
precepts of the Stoic philosophy. The robes of these scholars would, as a 
symbol of their scholastic attainments, he trimmed with fur, as suggested in 
the radical meaning of ' budge.' 708. And fetch their precepts from the 
Cynick tub. Diogenes, the Cynic philosopher, is said to have lived in a tub. 
Comus makes use of this expression in order to show his contempt for the 
sect and its doctrines. To understand his attitude, we must remember that 
the Stoics and their forerunners, the Cynics, despised all pleasures of the senses, 
and praised the 'Abstinence' vs'hich Comus calls 'lean and sallow.' 714. 
curious, dainty or fastidious. 718-719. in her own loyns She hutch't, in 
her underground recesses, she laid up or stored away : cf. rabbit-hutch. 722. 
freize. Explain ' temperance ' (1. 721) in such a way as to show that it extends 
to the wearing of this coarse cloth. Look up derivation of ' frieze.' 724. 
half. What is the syntax ? despis'd. Does this modify 'All-giver' or 'riches' ? 
728. Who, referring to Nature. 730. earth, air. Syntax ? 733. forhead 
of the deep. Decide whether ' deep ' here means the sea or the region 
under the earth. Take into consideration what ' forehead ' would mean in each 
case, in what way it would be bestudded with stars, and to whom ' they be- 
low ' refers. 737. coy: see note on Lye. (18). cozen'd, self-beguiled or 
cheated. 739-744. Beauty . . . head. On these lines Verity says, "They 
contain an idea which had become a commonplace of poets, viz., that those who 
possess personal beauty should marry, and through their children enable that 
beauty to remain in the world instead of dying out." 750. grain: see note on // 
Pens. {^T)"^. 751. sampler, a piece of needlework designed to show (sample) 
the skill of the worker, \eize (tease), to card or comb (the original mean- 
ing of the word). 752. vermeil-tinctured. Look up derivation of vermil- 
ion- 755- you are but young yet. Observe the unpleasant alliteration and 
halting metre. This is one of the very few poor lines in Milton's poetry. 

756-799. 756-761. I had . . . pride. Most editors take pains to say 
that these lines are " spoken aside." Would it not be better, however, to 
consider that the Lady spoke them aloud, contemptuously in<lifferent as to 
whether Comus heard them or not ? 757. jugler. For similar names for 
Comus, see note on 1. 649. 760. bolt. The word is taken from the process 



490 NOTES TO MILTON 

of making flour, where the meal is bolted or sifted out from the bran ; hence, 
refine, i.e. make subtle or dangerous. 761. her. To what does this refer? 
764. cateres, feminine of caterer, a provider. 767. spare Temperance : cf. 
Jl Pens. {i\6). 768-779. If . . . Feeder. State the Lady's argument clearly, 
and discuss it as a refutation of what Comus said in 11. 720-736. 773. In 
. . . proportion. In reading this line give four syllables to proportion and 
slur each of the two words preceding it. 775. And . . . thank't : cf. 1. 723. 
778-779. besotted, base, Cramms, blasphemes. Explain the peculiar fitness 
of these words. 780-799. To . . . head. Discuss these lines as a rejoinder 
to Comus's speech of 11. 737-755. 780. anow, enough : ^/ Zyc. (114). 785. 
sublime. For pronunciation, see note on 1. 11. 788. And thou . . . know. 
A Latin construction for, Thou art not worthy of knowing. 791. dazling 
fence. Explain this figure (drawn from fencing). 797. brute, used in its 
radical sense (from Lat. brtitiis, dull or insensible). 798. magick structures. 
Does this refer to his palace, or, rhetorically, to his pretended arguments ? 
Discuss. 

800-813. 803-805. wrath of Jove . . . crew. Read the story of how 
Jove overthrew the Titans and thrust them into Erebus. CI. D. or CI. Jll., 
p. 40. Saturn (Lat.), or Cronus (Gk.), was the leader of the Titans. 805. 
dissemble, conceal my discomfiture. 808. Canon laws of our foundation, 
the fundamental laws underlying our order, as if Comus were a representa- 
tive of some religious organization. 809-810. lees and setlings, unhealthy 
dregs, melancholy blood. Here ' melancholy ' is not used as in // Penseroso, 
but in its entirely radical sense, meaning with its noun 'blood,' filled with a 
black bile, i.e. a disordered bodily condition. 811. streight: see note on 
r A II eg. (69). 

814-858. 815. ye should have snatcht his wand: see 1. 653. 817. 
backward mutters. By muttering the charm backwards and holding the rod 
reversed, they might have broken the magic spell. 820. me: see note on 1. 351. 
822. MelibOBUS, a name for a shepherd in classical pastoral poetry, e.g. Virgil 
in his Eclogues. The allusion is clearly to some writer who has told the story of 
Sabrina. Some commentators think that the poet is referring to Geoffrey 
of Monmouth, by whom, in 1147, the legend was first told. (See Geoffrey 
of Monmouth in the account of the Poetry of Chivalry in this volume, p. 330.) 
But Geoffrey was not a poet, but a writer of Latin prose, and hence would 
scarcely have been called ' shepherd,' — the pastoral figure for poet. The 
allusion is more likely to Spenser (a favorite of Milton, as indeed of all other 
poets), who has given a version of the story in his Faerie Queene. 823. sooth- 
est, truest, pip't, played the shepherd's pipe, i.e. wrote poetry. 825. moist 
curb. Explain why she is said to sway it with ' moist curb.' 826-832. Sabrina 
. . . course. Milton, in his history of Britain (1670), has given us the story of 
Sabrina, as he finds it in Geoffrey of Monmouth. By noting some of the inci- 
dents of this version we can explain most of the allusions of this passage. The 
great grandson of /Eneas, Brut, has migrated from Italy to Britain, founding, 
giving his name to, and ruling over the race of Britons. His son and successor, 



COM us 491 

Locrine, has married Gwendolen, but by a former love, Estrilidis, has a 
beautiful daughter named Sabra or Sabrina. In time Locrine divorces Gwen- 
dolen and makes Estrilidis his queen. The enraged Gwendolen thereupon 
raises an army, defeats and slays Locrine, and commands Estrilidis and 
Sabrina to be thrown into the river, which thereafter is called Severn, from 
the name of the maiden. 827. Whilom, of old. 831. Commended . . . 
flood. Observe how Milton has, for poetic effect, varied the latter portion 
of the legend. 834. pearled wrists, i.e. wrists adorned with pearls (said 
to exist in the Severn). 835. aged Nereus. For this old river god, father 
of the fifty Nereids, see CI. D. or CI. J/., p. 85. 839. porch and inlet, the 
mouth, the nostrils, etc., gateways of the various senses. 845. Helping all 
urchin blasts, i.e. relieving or preventing the mischief done through the 
blighting influences ('blasts') of mischievous elves. Look up the derivation 
and various meanings of ' urchin.' Observe that we still use ' helping ' in this 
sense when we say " I could not help it." For ' blast,' cf. 1. 640. 846. shrewd, 
in its radical sense now obsolete, — shrewish or malicious. 852. old swain : 
see 11. 822-823. However neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser assigns 
this power to Sabrina. 853. clasping charm: see 11. 660 and 665. 857- 
858. This will I try . . . adjuring verse. The spirit proposes to try both 
the song (1. 854), found in 11. 859-866 and an earnest entreaty in the name 
of all of the water divinities, seen in 11. 867-889. 

859-889. The 'warbled song' and the 'adjuring verse.' Discuss the 
metre of both song and address. 863. The loose . . . hair, Sabrina's 
flowing hair, yellow, as becomes a river goddess, with drops of water falling 
through and from it. 865. silver lake, the Severn. 867-889. Listen . . . 
save. It is interesting to know that these lines, originally intended by 
Milton to be spoken, were probably set to music by Lawes, and sung in 
recitative by him as spirit, and by the two brothers. The first fifteen lines 
of the passage illustrate the necessity to the reader of knowing something of 
classic mythology. These names may all be found in a Classical Dictionary, 
or in the Classic Myths, as follows : Oceanus, a Titan, god of the River 
Ocean (p. 85); Neptune, brother of Jupiter and ruler of the sea (p. 85). 
Also see note on 1. 20. Tethys, a Titaness and wife of Oceanus (p. 85); 
Nereus, genial old man of the sea (p. 85). Also see 1. 835. Carpathian 
wisard, Proteus, who dwelt on the island of Carpathus (p. 86) ; Triton, son 
of Neptune and trumpeter of the sea (p. 86) ; Glaucus, son of Sisyphus, 
changed from a fisherman into a sea god with prophetic powers (pp. 217- 
218); Leucothea, otherwise Ino, daughter of Cadmus (p. 219), And her son, 
Melicertes, or Portumnus (p. 219); Thetis, mother of Achilles, and best 
known of the Nereids (p. 277); Sirens: (pp. 86 and 320); also see note on 
1.253; Parthenope, one of the Sirens (p. 321), and Ligea, another Siren 
(p. 464). 873. winding-shell, the sea-shell used as a horn by this trumpeter 
of the sea (to wind means to blow). 877. tinsel-slipper'd, the "silver- 
footed Thetis" of Homer. 879. tomb. When Ulysses escaped, the grief- 
stricken Parthenope is said to have drowned herself. It is fabled that her 



492 NOTES TO MILTON 

body was cast up on the Italian shore at the present site of Naples, which 
city is called Parthenope by Virgil and Ovid. 880. COmb. On this, Kneightly 
remarks, " The comb belongs to the mermaids of Northern, not to the Sirens 
of Greek, mythology." 883. nymphs that nightly dance, the Naiads, CI. D. 
or CI. M., pp. 87 and 207. 

890-921. Sabrina rises and gives aid to the Lady. 892. sliding 
chariot. Explain. 893. Thick set . . . green, the decoration or ornamen- 
tation of the chariot, or, perhaps, more exactly, the coloring of the chariot, 
— a coloring like that which glimmers through the water. 894. turkis, 
an obsolete form of turquoise. 895. That . . . strayes. What does this 
clause modify and what mean ? 902. dear. Bell notes " that the Spirit 
takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song (' here,' ' dear,' ' request,' ' dis- 
trest'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song (' dis- 
trest,' 'best')." Also observe the metre and rhyme which prevails from 
this point to the end of the poem — a metre, as Verity points out, " much 
used in the masques of Ben Jonson and other masque writers, perhaps 
because it lent itself easily to declamation or musical accompaniment." 904. 
To undo the charmed bond: see 11. 852-853. 913. of pretious cure, 
modifies ' drops.' 914. Thrice. Note the magical number. 916. marble 
venom'd, envenomed with poison or enchanted. See stage directions after 
1. 658. 917. Smear'd with gumms of glutenous heat. The enchantment of 
the marble seat (as if covered with a sticky gum) is dispelled by the touch of 
Sabrina's hands (918-919). 921. Amphitrite, wife of Neptune: see CL D. 
or CI. M., p. 85. 

922-957. The Spirit, after invoking blessings on the goddess, urges the 
Lady to fly with him to her father's palace. 922. daughter of Locrine : see 
note on 11. 826-832. 923. Anchises' line. Sabrina was the great-great-great- 
great-granddaughter of Anchises. Prove this. 924. brimmed, brimming. 
927. snowy hills, mountains of Wales and sources of the Severn. 929. 
scorch. To decide the mood of the verb, see note on 1. 658. 931. molten 
crystal, referring to the clearness of the river. 934. lofty head, the source 
of the river, high in the mountains. 935. round, seems to be an adverb modi- 
fying ' crown'd.' 936. upon, probably also an adverb, used like ' round ' of 
the previous hne. 937. myrrhe and cinnamon. This picture is, of course, 
fanciful. On the passage above, Masson remarks, "The whole of this poetic 
blessing on the Severn, involving the wish of what we should call ' solid com- 
mercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 
950. His wish't presence. The Earl of Bridgewater did not assume his 
post as Lord President of Wales till more than two years after his appoint- 
ment. 951. swains, suggesting the introduction of the country dancers, as 
in the next stage direction. These dances probably formed a sort of interlude 
or anti-masc[ue between the two scenes, and took place just after 1. 957. 
Note that this line, marking the close of the scene, is a pentameter. 

958-975. Two songs of the Attendant Spirit. 958. Back, shepherds, 
back — thus breaking off the dances and ushering in the last scene. 959. 



COM us 403 

sun-shine holiday: cf. L'Alleg. (98). 960. be.- see note on 1. 12. duck 
or nod, characteristic of the country dances. 961. Other trippings. Bell 
assumes this to refer to the " movements of the Lady and her brothers " 
May It not rather have reference to the court dance or inauguration ball, 
which maybe easily supposed to end the festivities? 963. Mercury For this 
god and messenger of gods, see CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 68-69. 964.' Dryades 
For wood nymphs, or 'Dryads,' see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 77. 972 assays 
trials. 974-975- To triumph . . . intemperance. As Bell remarks, " The 
whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines." 

976-1023. The epilogue of the Attendant Spirit. When presented at 
Ludlow Castle the tirst twenty lines of this epilogue were given a slight 
verbal change and presented as a prologue, sung by the Attendant Spirit when 
hrst descending upon the stage. 977. happy climes, possibly the Elysian 
fields of the Odyssey. 981-983. All amidst . . . golden tree. For an 
account of the Hesperides, and their guardianship of the tree of the ^rolden 
apples, see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 237. 984. crisped, curled, by the" wind 
ruffling the fohage. 986. Graces : see note on UAlleg. (12). Howres : see 
CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 51 and 65. 989. musky, because laden with per- 
fumes. 990. cedarn alleys, the pathways winding through the cedar groves. 

991. Nard and cassia, aromatic plants often mentioned in the Bible. 

992. Iris there with humid bow. For the goddess of the rainbow, see 
CI. D. or CI. M., p. 73. 993. blow, cause to bloom (here used transitively). 
995- purfl'd, having its edges embroidered, shew. For present pronuncia- 
tion, see note on 1. 512. 996. Elysian, heavenly. 997. true, sufficiently well 
attuned. 999. Adonis. For the story of the love of Venus for Adonis, and 
of his death, see CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 152 and 450. Adonis is here repre- 
sented as recovering from his wound in this heavenly abode of which the 
Spirit is telling. 1002. Assyrian queen, Venus, from the fact that she was 
first worshipped in Assyria. 1003-1008. But far above . . . bride. Read the 
story of Cupid and Psyche, her labors and their final happiness, in CI. D. or 
CI. AL, pp. 152-161. 'Far above' modifies 'advanced,' which in turn modi- 
fies ' Cupid.' 1007. gods, governed by the post-positive preposition ' among.' 
loio. blissful, blessed : see Prologue (17). loii. Youth and Joy. This gen- 
ealogy is of Milton's invention. See remarks on L'AlIeg. (19). 1012. now, 
supply inasmuch as. task: see 1. 18. 1015. bow'd welkin, the vaulted 
arch of the heavens. 1017. corners of the moon, the horns (Lat. cormia). 
1018-1023. Mortals . . . her. Note this last strong statement of the oft- 
repeated theme of this masque. Mortals who would rise to the heavens with 
the Attendant Spirit can do so only by a love of virtue. 1021. spheary 
chime, the chiming or music of the spheres, i.e. beyond the stars. See 
note on 1. 112. 

1022-1023. Or, if Vertue feeble were, 

Heav'n itself would stoop to her. 
This couplet well sums up the poem. It portrays the action of the masque, 
for it expresses just what the Attendant Spirit has done. The lines were 



494 NOTES TO MILTON 

always favorites of Milton, as the truest expression of his steadfast confidence 
in the ever present aid which Heaven gives to him whose ideal is the clean 
and upright life. 

In the stuciy of this poem the pupil should examine certain passages with a 
view to understanding Milton's employment of poetic figures: others with an 
eye to his skill in rhetorical and logical artifices. For instance, 11. 513-580 
for the former, 706-799 for the second. His artistic use of derived or 
memory-images may be studied in 11. 859-1023. All lines that appear to 
be supremely poetic in sound and sense should be marked and discussed. 
The manner and peculiarities of the blank verse should also be studied. (On 
all these matters, see Introduction, pp. xxxix-1, Ix, Ixix-lxxvi, cvi.) 



For general remarks on the sonnet as a verse form, see the Introduction 
to this book, p. Ixxxv ; also the account of the sixteenth-century pre-Elizabethan 
era; also the notes on Spenser's Sonnet to Raleigh, and on Wordsworth's 
Sonnets. Milton wrote in all twenty-three Sonnets, five in Italian and 
eighteen in English. Of his English Sonnets the first two were written near 
the end of his college life, in about his twenty-third year; while the other 
sixteen, composed between 1642 and 1658, were the only poems he wrote 
during the period of his fierce political strife in behalf of the commonwealth. 
Of all his poems, these Sonnets are the most intensely personal. 

Though the sonnet is a form of verse derived from the Italian, the early 
English sonneteers, including Shakespeare himself, did not pretend to follow 
the Italian form. Milton observes the pause between octave and sestet, usual 
in the strict Italian form, in only seven of his eighteen English Sonnets. An- 
other important rule of the Italian sonnet, viz., that the last two lines must 
not rhyme, he breaks in only one instance. He follows closely the most com- 
mon Italian rhyme systems of the sestet, c-d c-d c-d and c-d-e c-d-e, having in 
his eighteen English Sonnets seven of the former and five of the latter system. 
The poet himself constantly refers to his Sonnets as poems in the " Petrarchian 
stanza." 

Sonnet II 

Milton took his master's degree at Cambridge, and severed his connection 
with the University in July, 1632. There has been found among his manu- 
scripts a letter to some unknown friend, undated, but probably written not 
long after his graduation, in which he replies at some length to the charge 
that he was wasting his time in aimless study, when he should be devoting 
himself to the Church or engaging in some other active pursuit. After stat- 
ing decisively that he has given over all idea of entering the ministry, he 
concludes, " Yet, that you may see that I am something suspicious of my- 
self, and do take notice of a certain belatedness in me, I am the bolder to 
send you some of my nightward thoughts some while since, because they 
come in not altogether unfitly, made up in a Petrarchian stanza which I told 
you of." The " Petrarchian stanza," or sonnet, which thereupon follows, has 



SONNETS 495 

been since entitled, On his having arrived at the Age of Twenty-three. As its 
title indicates, the sonnet was undoubtedly written on or about the poet's 
twenty-third birthday, i.e. December, 1631. 

I. suttle theef. Why is 'time ' called a ' subtle thief ? 5. semblance. 
Milton's delicate youthful beauty was such that he was nicknamed " the Lady 
of Christ's College." 7. And . . . appear. This line is probably coordinate 
with the preceding line, both lines being in apposition with ' truth.' Owing to 
my youthful appearance, people do not realize that I am so old, or that I am so 
tardy in development. 8. timely-happy spirits indu'th, i.e. that endows 
(modern form of endue) men more fortunate as regards early maturity. 
9. it, inward ripeness. 10. still, ever, eev'n. in proportion to, conform- 
ing itself. 13. All is. Does this mean. Everything is now thus propor- 
tioned ; or. All that concerns me is whether, etc.; or is there some other 
interpretation ? 

Sonnet XVI 

Though this Sonnet was written in 1652, owing to the nature of some of 
its lines it was not printed until 1694, when allusions to pre-restoration 
politics were more tolerantly received than during the post-restoration period 
of Milton's life. Certain of the independent ministry had petitioned a par- 
liamentary committee for state support of the clergy and for other special 
privileges. Milton saw clearly that this would be only a first step toward 
the overthrow of religious liberty ; and, as Masson points out, the Sonnet " is 
a call to Cromwell to save England from a mercenary ministry of any denomi- 
nation, or a new ecclesiastical tyranny of any form." 

1-4. Put into prose order. Cromwell had to make his way not only against 
the enemy in the field, but also against detractors in his own party. 5. neck 
of crowned Fortune proud. " This is an unmistakable allusion to Charles I, 
expressed in Biblical language. Cf. C^««/5 xlix. 8." (Bell.) Whether or 
not this is true, the downfall of the Royalist cause is at least referred to. 
7. Darwent stream, where Cromwell routed the Scots in 1648. 8. Dun- 
bar field, where the Scots, in 1650, were again defeated by the Protector. 9. 
Worcester's, laureat wreath. In the battle of Worcester, 1651, just one 
year after Dunbar, the Scots were finally overthrown. Hence the laureate, or 
laurel, a wreath, crowning Cromwell's fina. victory. 11. new foes, i.e. such 
foes as the independent clergy mentioned above, who were scheming for the 
estabhshment of a state Church, and were thus inimical to religious freedom. 
13-14. Help . . . maw. With these hnes cf. Lye. (113-118). 

Sonnet XIX 

Milton became totally blind in 1652. Though it would seem probable 
that this, his first reference in poetry to his affliction, was written not long 
after that date, there are reasons for placing it as late as 1655. In Masson's 
judgment it may have been written any time between these two dates. The 
title On his Blindness has been added since Milton's time. 



496 NOTES TO DRYDEN 

2. Ere half my days. Just one-third of Milton's ' days ' were spent in 
blindness. 3. And that one talent. Supply ' how ' from 1. i, making the 
clause the object of ' consider.' Look up the parable of the talents in Matthew 
XXV. 14-30, and show how Milton is applying the story to himself. 6. lest 
He returning chide, still a reference to the parable. 7. light : see note on 
EAlleg. (62). 8. fondly, foolishly. 12. thousands, i.e. of heavenly mes- 
sengers, or angels. 

Sonnet XXII 

This was the second of the Sonnets addressed to Cyriac Skinner. As in 
the case of the Sonnet to Cromwell, it was not published until after Milton's 
death. The ' three years' day ' of the first line fixes the year in which it was 
written as 1655. Unlike most of the Sonnets, it bore a title on its first 
publication. 

I. Cyriac. Of Cyriac Skinner we know little except that he was the 
grandson of the famous lawyer, Sir Edward Coke; that he was himself a 
lawyer of some prominence; and that he was an intimate friend, and probably 
former pupil, of the poet, clear. According to Milton's statement elsewhere, 
his eyes did not externally give evidence of his blindness. 10. conscience, 
consciousness, overply'd. The work which Milton did in the cause of the 
commonwealth was what finally destroyed his naturally weak sight. The 
allusion is no doubt especially to one of Milton's many prose works during this 
period, Pro Populo Anglicano Defensio, published in 1 65 1. 12. Of which 
all Europe rings. The word ' rings ' occurs in the earliest printed edition 
(1694), although it is probably the editor's substitution for "talks," which 
appears in the original manuscript. 13. world's vain mask: cf. Merchant of 
Venice, I, I, 77-78, "I hold the world ... a stage, where every man must 
play his part." 

DRYDEN 

ALEXANDER'S FEAST 

St. Cecilia, a patron saint of music, is supposed to have lived «t the begin- 
ning of the third century, having suffered martyrdom about 220 A. i). Accord- 
ing to the legends which have sprung up about her, she was pure, devoted, 
religious, beloved of the angels, inspired by and inspirer of music. At some 
time and in some way — just when or how is uncertain — she had grown to 
be regarded as music's patron saint, and hence, during a part of the seven- 
teenth and eighteenth centuries, one day of each year was set aside by 
musicians and music lovers to do homage to her memory. How the tradition 
arose that St. Cecilia invented the organ is a matter of conjecture, as are also 
the actual facts concerning its invention. The legend of St. Cecilia was 
first told in English by Chaucer in his Second Nun's Tale. 

Alexander's least, probably the finest of all the odes written for the 
.St. Cecilia festivals, was composed in 1697, the poet being then in his sixty- 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST 497 

eighth year. Lord Bolingbroke (the lifelong friend of Pope, and the 
"Mr. St. John" of Thackeray's Henry Esmond) has recorded a remark made 
to him by Dryden : " I have been up all night. My musical friends made me 
promise to write them an ode for their Feast of St. Cecilia, and I was so 
struck with the subject which occurred to me that I could not leave it till I 
had completed it. Here it is, finished at one sitting." Although the poet 
afterward spent a week or two in revising this first draft, it is probable that it 
was not altered to any considerable extent. Dryden himself was much pleased 
with his effort, and is reported to have boasted that "a finer ode had never 
yet been written and never would be." His earlier poem on the same subject, 
A Song for St. Cecilia's Day (1687), was also a noteworthy production, 
although much shorter and less ambitious than Alexander'' s Feast. 

The most characteristic quality of this poem is found in its onomatopoetic 
effects both in word-sounds and in metre. It has been said of Dryden that 
metre, far from being a hindrance to him, was a source of positive freedom; 
and nowhere is this exemplified better than in Alexander'' s Feast. While 
reading the poem, the student should note, for each stanza, three things: 
(i) the kind of music Timotheus is playing ; (2) the effect of the music on 
Alexander; and (3) the way in which the poet, by word-sounds and metrical 
effects, pictures objectively the sound of the music, and subjectively and more 
subtly the resulting mood of the great conqueror. See Introduction, 
pp. Ixix, Ixxvi, for the sound-qualities of verse, and p. Ixxxv for the Ode. 

Stanza i. 1-2. Persia . . . son. ' Philip's warlike son,' Alexander the 
Great, overthrew Darius and thus conquered Persia in 331 B.C. 3-5. Aloft 
. . . throne. By pronouncing these lines slowly and impressively, the reader 
catches the effect the poet wishes to produce, — the dignified majesty and 
self-important contentment of the victor. 6-1 1. His . . . pride. These 
longer lines, in contrast with the three preceding, resume a conversational 
tone — are merely narrative. In irregular verse, like that of an ode, this is 
apt to be the case with the longer iambic lines. 9. Thais, a favorite of Alex- 
ander, and well-known and beautiful woman of the time. 12-15. Happy 
. . . fair. Notice and explain the effect of the repetitions. Finally examine 
the rhymes of the stanza, observing the change of rhyme system with each new 
thought of the stanza: thus (l) a-a-b-b-a, Alexander and his feast; (2) c-c-c, 
the peers; (3) «'-</-^/, Thais; (4) ^-/-y^^, Alexander and Thais. What should 
you judge, from such groupings as these, to be an underlying principle of rhyme 
variations ? Continue this study of rhyme-groupings for subsequent stanzas. 
What purpose does the chorus of this and the other stanzas seem to serve? 
What can you say of the onomatopoetic effect of these choruses? 

Stanza 2. 20. Timotheus, a Theban musician of Alexander's time. 
26. seats above, i.e. on Olympus. 28. A dragon's . . . God. In wooing 
mortals, Jupiter usually took some such form, e.g. a swan, a bull, a shower of 
gold, etc. 30. Olympia, Olympias, the mother of Alexander. 33. an 
image, i.e. Alexander. The musician flatters the conqueror by assigning to 
him the parentage of a demigod. 35. A present deity: see note on 1. 33. 



498 NOTES TO DRYDEN 

37-41. With . . . spheres. Note the self-conscious satisfaction with which 
Alexander assumes this role. Like Jupiter, he will shake the universe by a 
nod. Note, also, the way in which the iambic dimeter and trimeter lines 
picture this mood. 

Stanza 3. 47-48. The praise . . . young. Observe the metre of these 
merely narrative lines. See note on 11. 6-1 1. For characteristics of Bacchus, 
see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 76. 49-53. The jolly . . . comes. Show how these 
lines picture repressed excitement, indicative of approaching Bacchanalian 
revels. 52. honest (Lat. honesttts), handsome, open, frank. 53. hautboys, 
the modern oboe. Look up derivation of this word. 54-60. Bacchus . . . 
pain. Describe the difference in rhythmical effect between these lines and 
those just preceding, and show the corresponding difference in mood. What 
line in this stanza reaches the climax of excitement ? Discuss the rhyme 
system of the stanza. 

Stanza 4. 66-68. Sooth'd . . . slain. Discuss the metrical effect and 
evident mood of these lines. 70. ardent, used in its radical sense. See 
derivation, 72. his, his, to whom does each pronoun refer ? 73. Muse, 
strain of music or song. 76. too severe, why, ' too severe ' ? 77. fallen, 
etc. Explain the fine effect of this repetition. What mood in the former, and 
what in the latter, part of this stanza? Trace the rhyme system as in stanza I. 

Stanza 5. 97. Lydian measures. This music was soft and voluptuous: 
see LAlleg. (136) and note. 97-106. Softly . . . provide thee. Observe 
how the Lydian measure is pictured by the smooth trochaic lines, with their 
feminine (double) rhymes, licjuid sounds, and frequent alliterations. 107-108. 
The many . . . cause. Explain the change in metre. See note on 11. 6-1 1. 

Stanza 6. Compare the metrical effects of this stanza with those of stanza 
5, — sibilants with liquids, harsh word sequences with smooth ones, irregular 
line lengths with regular ones, masculine with feminine rhymes, — giving 
instances of each. Show how these metrical effects picture the respective 
strains of music in the two stanzas, and the moods of Alexander which these 
strains arouse. On harsh and easy sequences of sound, see Introduction, 
jip. Ixix-lxxiii. 132-135. See . . . eyes. Such was the ancient conception 
of the Furies. See CI. D. or CI. M., p. 84. 138-140. Grecian . . . plain. 
W'ith the Greeks burial was all important, since without it their souls could 
not cross the Styx until after years of wandering. See CI. M., p. 79. 141. ven- 
geance due. ' Due ' to whom, and why ? 150. like another Hellen. Does 
this mean simply that Helen was the indirect cause of Troy's downfall, or 
is there any ground for saying that she may have actually helped burn the 
city? See CI. D. or CI. AI., p. 309. 151. flambeau. See Did. 

Stanza 7. This is the stanza that links the ode to the occasion for which 
it was written. Observe that, for the most part, it is simple narrative, thus 
sharply contrasting with the excitement of the preceding stanza. 156-157. 
Ere heaving bellows . . . mute, since St. Cecilia had not yet come. See 
introduction to notes. 162. vocal frame, the structure ('frame') like a 
voice, the organ. 164-165. Enlarg'd . . . sounds, i.e. produced sustained 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 499 

notes, as a reed instrument differs from a stringed instrument in having power 
of indefinitely prolonging its tones. 170. She . . . down. According to 
some accounts it was the exquisite playing of St. Cecilia, according to others, 
her spotless purity, that attracted the angel to her. Compare with the con- 
ception of this line that of the well-known painting of St. Cecilia. 

POPE 
THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 

Lord Petre, a young gentleman of London society, had aroused the anger 
of Miss Arabella Fermor, through " the trifling occasion of his having cut off 
a lock of her hair." The " quarrel " extended to the families and friends of 
both parties, and became so fierce that a Mr. Caryl, friendly to both, sug- 
gested to Pope that he ridicule the matter in a " comical " poem, and thus 
help to end the dissension. The resulting poem, in two cantos, was first 
printed in Lintot's Miscellany (171 2) exactly as presented in this volume. 
For a comparison between this form and the enlarged edition published two 
years later, see the discussion following the sketch of Pope's life. As to the 
effect of the poem, it need only be said that Miss Fermor was far from pleased 
with the notoriety which it thrust upon her, and that she was not reconciled 
to the offending Lord Petre through its influence. 

77^1? Rape of the Lock was called by Pope "an heroi-comical poem." It is 
really a mock-heroic or mock epic, in which commonplace events are pur- 
posely treated in such a manner as to raise them to a plane of false dignity 
and importance. The poem also incidentally burlesques, or parodies, lines 
and passages of the serious epics of Greece and Rome. However, it is an 
error to speak of it as a burlesque. Indeed, to the ordinary reader, un- 
acquainted with Homer or Virgil, the poem has no element of the burlesque 
at all. But to every class of readers, as Hazlitt has said, it is " the perfection 
of the mock-heroic, the triumph of insignificance, the apotheosis of foppery 
and folly." The Rape of the Lock is an "occasional poem" — a poem called 
forth by some special incident or occasion — and has always been regarded as 
one of the most brilliant of the kind. The Rape of the Lock is, moreover, 
somewhat like the famous Spectator Papers of the same time, a most delightful 
satire on the frivolities and foibles of the society by which its author was sur- 
rounded. (On Epic, Mock-heroic, and Satire, see Introduction, pp. xciv, cii.) 

It is a curious fact that, although Pope within ten years was to receive the 
large sum of ;^9000 for his translations of Homer, he was paid for this better, 
though shorter, production exactly ;^22, — £'] for this first edition and ^15 
for the later one. 

Canto I. 1-12. The Invocation and Exordium. 1-3. What . . . sing, 
a parody from the first two lines of the Iliad. The poem is full of these paro- 
dies, and has always appealed with especial force to those who have an 
intimate knowledge of the Greek and Latin poets, and can thus appreciate 
how Pope "takes off" the stately lines of Homer and Virgil. 3. C 1. 



500 NOTES TO POPE 

Caryl (or Caryll) was a country gentleman of Sussex, for years a frienil and 
correspondent of Pope. See introduction to notes. 4. Belinda. This name 
for Miss Fermor occurs in the prefatory motto of the poem, and was substi- 
tuted by Pope for Polytine in the lines of an epigram written by the Latin poet, 
Martial. 11-12. And . . . men: cf. Ai.neid,\,\\. 

12-34. The heroine of the poem arises and attends a boating party on 
the Thames. 13. Sol. The excessive use of Greek and Latin proper names 
was one of the characteristics of the eighteenth-century Classical school. 
15. Shock, Belinda's lap-dog. 17. Thrice . . . ground. Knocking against 
the floor ('ground') with the heel of a shoe or slipper was a customary way 
of summoning the maid. 18. striking watches. It is interesting to find 
that these were invented over two centuries ago. At this point the revised 
edition added one hundred and thirty lines, introducing the Sylphs, describing 
Belinda's toilet, and closing the canto. 26. unfix'd as those. Why ' unfixed ' ? 
33. female : cf. use in Deserted Village (287). 

35-50. The Baron's designs on a lock of Belinda's hair. 35. Nymph, 
Belinda, Miss Fermor. The word is used through the poem to mean maiden. 
36. graceful. Give syntax. 41. sprindges (springes), snares or slip nooses. 
45. Baron, Lord Petre : see introduction to notes. 50. Few . . . ends : 
cf. Aineiil, II, 390, of which this is almost an exact translation. 

51-64. The rites and sacrifices offered by the Baron to ' propitious heaven.' 
This is a delightful parody on many similar occurrences in Greek and Latin 
epics. 51. Phoebus: see note on 1. 13. 52. Propitious, a prolepsis. The 
Baron's purpose was to t/take heaven propitious. 53. Love, here, as in 1. 39, 
means Cupid. 54. vast French Romances. These works were indeed ' vast ' ; 
for instance, one of them, Clelia (^Clelie), "appeared in ten volumes of eight 
hundred pages each." (Hales.) .See Spectator, No. 37. 55-56. Sylvia and 
Flavia, evidently two of his ' former loves.' 59. Billets-doux {Vr. billet, 3. 
woiQ + doux [Lat. dulcis], sweet), love letters. Note the spelling. Many 
editors have the singular, billet-doux, an evident mistake. 63. half his 
pray'r. Which half of the petition (1. 62) was granted? 63-64. The 
pow'rs . . . air : cf. ALneid, XI, 794-795, a close parallel. At this point 
the enlarged edition adds nearly one hundred lines, showing the preparations 
of the Sylphs to defend Belinda. This addition concludes Canto II. 

65-82. The visit of the boating party to Hamilton Court. This begins 
the third canto of the revision. 66. rising. Explain. 67. a structure, 
Hampton Court, about ten miles west of London, originally built by Cardinal 
Wolsey in the sixteenth century. 70. foreign Tyrants. The reference is 
especially to Louis XIV of France. 71. three realms. What were they? 
72. Tea, pronounced tay in Pope's time. Though introduced into Europe a 
century before this time, tea was still a very expensive article, and was con- 
sidered a great luxury. 75-80. In . . . dies. Characterize the conversation. 
76. was bit, taken in, or beaten, at cards, capotted. To ' capot ' is to take 
all the tricks in the game of piquet. In the revised edition this line is entirely 
changed to ' Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last?' 78. screen. Japan 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 5OI 

and Indian screens were then "the rage." 81. Snuff. The habit of taking 
snuff had just been formed in England, and was popular even among ladies 
of fashion. See 6/>(?cA//or, No. 344. supply. Can the plural verb be justified? 
83-104. The intoxication of coffee as an influence on the rash stratagem 
of the Baron. 85-86. When . . . dine. These lines show something of 
Pope's satirical tendency. Croker speaks of them as forming a " repulsive 
and unfounded couplet." 86. wretches. In what sense? 88. And ... cease : 
cf. ALneid, VII, 170. Here some eighty lines are added in the second edition, 
describing, in mock-heroic fashion, a game of cards between Belinda and the 
Baron. 90. berries . . . mill, coffee, and the coffee-mill in which it is 
ground. Coffee had been common in England for about fifty years, having 
been introduced not long after the introduction of tea — shortly before 1650. 

91. Altars of Japan. Japanned stands were very popular in Pope's time. 

92. fiery spirits. What is meant? 93. grateful, to smell and taste. 
94. China's earth, china ware. 97-98. which . . . eyes. A sarcastic allu- 
sion to the " oracles," or " would-be politicians," of the coffee-houses. 102- 
104. Scylla . . . Nisus: see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 219. 

105-118. The rape (seizure) of the lock. 107. Clarissa. To the 
beginning of Canto V of the revised (1714) edition Pope subsequently added 
thirty lines, which first appeared in the quarto of 1 71 7. These lines were 
spoken by "Clarissa," on whom Pope made this annotation, — "a new char- 
acter introduced in the subsequent editions, to open more clearly the moral 
of the poem." He seems to forget that he had given Clarissa a part to play 
in the very first (171 2) edition. She evidently represents some friend of 
Miss Fermor and Lord Petre. 108. two-edg'd weapon : see note on ' for- 
fex,' 1. 115. 109-I10. So . . . fight. Point out the humor of this compari- 
son. 112. engine: see note on Lye. (130). 115. Forfex, a Latin word 
for a pair of shears. 116. divide, a transitive verb. What is its object? 
118. for ever. Describe the effect of the repetition. 

119-142. The anguish of the victim and the exultation of the victor. 
120-124. And . . . lie. Note the extravagance of the mock-epic. What 
gives these lines their humor? 129. Atalantis. The New Atalantis was 
a book of Pope's time, full of scandal of court and society, by a Mrs. Manley, 
who, though a notorious adventuress, was a friend of such literary men as 
Swift and Steele. 130. small pillow, a pillow of rich material and design — 
perhaps something like a sofa pillow — which fashionable ladies used as a 
support for their heads and shoulders when receiving visits in their bedrooms. 
This " fad " was copied from France, where at that time it was a way of receiv- 
ing fashionable morning calls. See the Spectator, No. 45. 131-134. While 
. . . live: cf. ^EneiJ, I, 607-609. 135. date, i.e. time at which it must fall. 
137-138. Steel . . . Troy. For an account of the siege of Troy, see CI. D. 
or CI. M.^ pp. 290-307. What part did 'steel' play in Troy's downfall? 

Canto II. 143-152. The feelings of Belinda. This begins Canto IV 
of the revision. 143-144. But . . . breast: cf. Aineid, IV, 1-2. 145- 
152. Not . . . Hair. Show what feelings Belinda had in common with 



502 NOTES TO POPE 

each of these, — 'kings,' 'virgins,' lovers,' etc. 148. ancient lady, evidently 
" old maid." 150. manteau, cloak. 152. ravish'd : <:/ 1. 48. Here follow 
in the revision aliout eighty-five lines, describing the Cave of Spleen. 

153-180. 154. Thalestris, Mrs. Morley, a friend of Miss Fermor. 158. 
bodkins, pins used by women to fasten the hair, leads, used for doing up 
the hair; just as paper is used in I. 159. 160. irons, curling-irons. 166. 
Ease. Give syntax. Meaning of the sentence ? 169. degraded toast. 
Meaning? 170. honour. Meaning of this word here and in 1. 165 ? How 
can it be 'lost' in a 'whisper'? 171. fame. Meaning here? 174. Ex- 
pos'd through crystal. The Baron evidently intends to have the lock set in 
a ring. 177. Hyde-park Circus, the Ring, or fashionable drive of London, 
178. And wits . . . Bow. The Bow was the East End, or "city" part, 
of London — a favorite subject of satire for the fashionable wits of the 
eighteenth century. See the Spectator, No. 34. 179-180. Sooner . . . all. 
Observe the anticlimax and its effect. 

181-190. The remonstrance of Sir Plume. 181. Sir Plume, Sir George 
Brown, brother of Mrs. Morley (Thalestris). He was very angry with this 
liberty which Pope had taken, for the likeness was sufficiently accurate to be 
easily recognized by his friends. But, as has been often pointed out. Pope 
was never above taking unwarrantable liberties with private character. 182. 
her, afterward changed to the, since she was his sister. 184. nice conduct. 
Twirling the cane, brandishing it in the air, and the like were actions much 
affected by the fops of the period. Addison ridicules this in Tatler, No. 103. 
clouded cane, a cane mottled with dark spots. 185. With . . . face. De- 
scribe this picture. 187-190. And thus . . . hair. What would you infer 
of the man from his speech ? 188. Zounds. Derivation of this word ? 

191-200. The Baron's reply. 191. again. How is the word used here? 
192. Who. What is the antecedent ? 195. honours shall renew. Explain. 
198. wear, a transitive verb with its object omitted — a favorite construction 
in Pope: cf. 'divide,' 1. 1 16. 199. He spoke, a parody on the frequently 
recurring dixerat of Virgil. 

201-231. Belinda's lament. 201. sorrow's pomp. Explain. 203-205. 
red — head — said. These lines form a triplet, a very rare thing in Pope. 
To avoid it, he omits 1. 203 in the revised edition: cf. 1. 319 — afterward 
omitted for the same reason. 208-209. Happy . . . seen : cf. /Eneid, IV, 
657-658, — the lamentation of Dido. 214. marks, makes tracks on, i.e. 
where there are no fashionable carriages. 215. Ombre, a card game de- 
scribed fully in the third canto of the revised poem. Bohea, a kind of black 
tea, pronounced Bohay in the eighteenth century. Hence the rhyme. 
218. youthful Lords. Lord Petre was at that time scarcely twenty years of 
age. 221. patch-box. The wearing of black patches was very common 
among the ladies of this period. See the Spectator, No. 81. 228. uncouth, 
here means ugly. See note on V Alleg. (5). 231. sacrilegious. Give the 
derivation. This concludes Canto IV of the revision. 

2,'i2.-'ZQl. The beginning of the struggle. 232. She said : see note on 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 503 

1. 199. 233. But . . . ears : cf. ^neid, IV, 440. 236-237. Not . . . vain. 
For the story of Dido and /Eneas, see CI. D., the ^Eneid, IV, or CI. I\I., pp. 
342-343. At this point thirty Hnes (the speech of Clarissa) were added to 
the revised edition. See note on 1. 107. 238-245. To arms . . . wound. 
These eight lines are overdrawn, even for mock-heroic; yet they have no 
little comic effect — • partly on account of their very extravagance, and partly 
from their balance with the succeeding eight lines relating a similar combat of 
the gods. These fine ladies and gentlemen are fighting like " fish wives " — 
or like gods. 246-253. So . . . day. The combat of the gods is detailed in 
the ///«</, XXI, 272-513. 248. 'Gainst . . . arms. ' Mars ' is the subject of 
' arms,' ' Latona ' the object of ' against.' Find out why the different gods took 
sides as they did in the Trojan War. See Iliad, CI. D., or CI. M., pp. 285, 
291. 251. Blue Neptune. Explain the adjective. On which side of the 
conflict was Neptune ? See CI. D. or CL M., pp. 189, 291, 253. And . . . 
day. The ' pale ghosts ' are the people of the underworld who are startled at 
the unwonted light as ' the ground gives way.' 257. One . . . SOng. ' In ' 
means in the act of uttering. Which of the two gave utterance to the meta- 
phor and which to the song ? 258. living death, a common metaphor in 
Milton and other poets. 261. Those . . . killing. Pope has given a note 
saying that these were " the words of a song in the opera of Camilla." 262- 
263. Maeander's flowery margin . . . dies : r/i Ci3;«m5 (232) and note. "The 
Meander was a famous haunt of swans, and the swan was a favorite bird with 
the Greek and Latin writers, one to whose singing they perpetually allude." 
(Professor Hales, in Athenaum, April 20, 1889.) Moreover, the swan is sup- 
posed to sing most sweetly as it dies. 

268-289. The overthrow of the Baron. 268-271. Now . . . subside. 
A close parody of Homer's well-known lines in the Iliad, VIII, 69-73. See 
also .'Eneid, XII, 725-727. As a result of this judgment of Jove, the Baron is 
now doomed to defeat. 277. one finger and a thumb, between which she 
held the snuff. 281. re-echoes, as he sneezes. 282. th' incens'd virago. 
Look up original meaning and the derivation of ' virago.' 283. bodkin. In 
modern times we may say that her threatened action is equivalent to " stab- 
bing with a hat-pin." 287. leaving you behind, i.e. leaving you alive. 

290-309. The disappearance of the lock. See 11. 61-64. 290-291. 
Restore . . . rebound. A close imitation of Dryden's Alexander''s Feast, 
11- 35-36- 292-293. Othello . . . pain: see Othello, \\\, l. Does 'roared' 
apply well to Belinda, even in mock-heroic ? 294. ambitious aims. What 
were they and on whose part? 298. must, force of this word here ? 300. 
Lunar sphere, the moon. Derivation of 'lunar'? 301. all . . . lost, i.e. 
trivial or insincere things. Note what they are in 11. 302-309. Pope says 
that he modelled this passage on the Italian poet Ariosto, — Canto XXXIV, 
of the Orlando Furioso. 302-303. Heroes', Beaus', wits. The satire is 
evidently directed against the soldier as well as the fop. Explain. 304. 
death-bed alms. Show point of the satire. 306-307. courtier's promises 
. . . sick man's pray'rs . . . tears of heirs. Show insincerity of each of 



504 NOTES TO GRAY 

these. 308-309. Cages . . . butterflies. Pope had little sympathy with 
scientific studies. 309. tomes of casuistry, huge books full of learning such 
as that of the Middle Ages. 

310-334. The victory of the Muse. 312. founder, Romulus, raised 
after his death to become the God Quirinus : see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 89. 
313. Proculus, who declared that he had received a vision from the risen 
Romulus. 314-315. A sudden Star . . . hair. Thus the lock became a 
comet. Look up derivation of comet. 316-317. Berenice's locks . . . light. 
Berenice, the widow of Ptolemy III, cut off her hair and hung it up in the 
temple of Mars, in obedience to a vow. The hair disappeared, and was 
fabled to have been taken into the heavens, and changed into the constella- 
tion which bears her name. Coma Berenices. 317. dishevel'd. Look up 
derivation and thus explain the use of the word. 318. Beau monde, the 
fashionable world (Fr. beau, fine + monde, world). Mall. Pall-mall (pro- 
nounced pell-mell), an old English ball game, has given the name ' Mall ' to 
the place where it vv'as played — afterward a fashionable walk in one of the parks 
of London. 319. As . . . s-tray : see note on 11. 203-205. 321-324. Par- 
tridge . . . Rome. Pope says, " John Partridge was a ridiculous star-gazer, 
who in his almanacks every year never failed to predict the downfall of the 
Pope and the King of France (Louis XIV), then at war with the English." 
322. Galilaeo's eyes, the telescope. Though Galileo was not the original 
inventor of the telescope, he may be said to have independently invented it, since 
the instrument he made in 1609 was constructed before he had seen any of the 
earlier ones. The early improvements, moreover, were almost entirely his. 
326. shining sphere, the heavens. 329. murders of your eye. Explain. 
331. fair suns, her eyes. 333-334. This Lock . . . name. A prediction 
remarkably true. A lock of hair and a poet have immortalized the other- 
wise unknown ' Belinda.' Probably so trivial an incident has never before or 
since inspired so brilliant a comic poem. 

The student should make a careful study of the heroic couplet as written 
by Pope, and of his skill in rhetorical and mock-logical artifices. In what 
respects can Pope's style be compared with Chaucer's ? (See pp. xlvii, Ixiv.) 

GRAY 

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 

Gray's Elegy has been called " for its size the most popular poem in any 
language." The reasons for this popularity are not far to seek. The poem 
deals with a theme of universal interest, to which the poet has contrived to 
give almost ideal expression. In its felicity of phrase, its melody of verse, its 
serenity and dignity of movement, there is little left to be desired. Its pains- 
taking and self-critical author was not ready to give it to the world till seven 
years after it had been begun; and when finally jiublished in 1750, it at once 
sprang into a position of favor which it has never lost. Professor Gosse says 
of the Elegy, a little extravagantly perhaps, that it " has exercised an influ- 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 505 

ence over all the poetry of Europe, from Denmark to Italy, from France to 
Russia." Though the poem in certain conventionalities of style and phrasing 
undoubtedly shows the influence of the artihcial school of Pope, on the other 
hand its sincerity and human sympathy mark a decided breaking away from 
the tenets of that school. Instead of the conventional heroic couplet, Gray 
chose for the poem what was, for that time, the comparatively rare quatrain, 
with iambic pentameter lines to be sure, but with alternating rhyme. That 
this verse-form exactly suits the poem, there can be little question. 

This Elegy forms a good example of composition, simple, but by no means 
perspicuous. Except with careful reading it is apt to leave an impression, 
pleasing, but on the whole vague. In the following notes frequent ques- 
tions have been asked to direct the student to the sequence of thought. It 
will be well, also, to note the stanzaic groupings which follow. 

1-12. I. curfew: see note on II Pens. (74). parting, departing, i.e. dy- 
ing. Hence the ' knell ^ ; cf. \. 89. 4. And . . . me. Point out the words 
in this and the three preceding lines which show the time of day, and the loneli- 
ness and hushed quiet of the scene. 5. glimmering. Describe the glimmer- 
ing of a landscape as darkness approaches. 6. stillness holds. Explain. 
7-8. Save . . . folds. What words are onomatopoetic and what is their 
effect ? What intensifies the stillness ? 

13-28. 13. elms, yew-tree. Why these particular trees ? 16. rude, 
in what sense ? Hales suggests that as the poet stands in the churchyard, 
it is the poorer people he is thinking of, since the richer are interred in the 
church, a place of greater sanctity, and greater security for the elaborate 
tombs. 20. lowly bed. Is this literal, or does it mean the grave ? 21. blaz- 
ing hearth. What figure ? 22. ply her evening care. To what household 
tasks may this line apply ? 

29-44. Into what two divisions does this passage fall ? 33. boast of 
heraldry, pride of birth. Heraldry is the science of recording genealogies. 
37. the fault. For a suggestion of the meaning, see 11. 49-52. 39. isle, 
aisle : see note on 1. 16. 39. fretted vault, the arched roof of the church, 
with ornamentations of fretwork. 40. pealing : cf. II Pens. (161). 
41. storied, on which is inscribed an epitaph or 'story.' The urn, originally 
a receptacle for the ashes of the dead, is here an ornament for the tomb. For 
'storied,' see II Pens. (159). animated bust, lifelike statue. 42. man- 
sion : see note on // Pens. (92). 43. Honour's voice, words honoring the 
dead, provoke, in its radical sense (from Lat. pro + vocare, to call forth). 

45-56. Show relation to preceding passage. 46. pregnant with celes- 
tial fire. As far as the spark of divinity or native ability is concerned they 
might have been kings (47) or poets (48). 50. Rich . . . time. Explain. 
unroll. The early books were simply rolls of parchment. Cf. derivation of 
volume. 51-52. Chill Penury . . . soul. Explain the figure in detail. 
Particularly discuss ' noble rage ' and 'genial current.' 53-56. Full . . . air. 
What is the application of these two figures to the preceding lines ? Do they 
express the same idea, or do you detect a difference ? 



506 NOTES TO GRAY 

57-76. Showing both the limitations and the blessings of this simple 
country people. 57. Hampden. In 1636 John Hampden, a cousin of Crom- 
well, refused to pay ship money, a tax which the king was levying without 
the consent of Parliament. The 'tyrant' he 'withstood' was, of course, 
Charles I. What would a ' village-Hampden ' be, and what ' the little tyrant ' ? 
60. Cromwell. The personality and motives of the Protector were very 
much misunderstood in the eighteenth century : see 1. 67. 61-64. Th' ap- 
plause . . . eyes. The four infinitives of this stanza are the objects of 
'forbad' (65). 62. threats . . . despise. To what may this refer and what 
does 'despise' mean? 63. To scatter . . . land. How and in what posi- 
tion can a man ' scatter plenty ' ? 64. And read . . . eyes. Explain in the 
light of the lines above. 67. to wade . . . throne: see note on 1. 60. 
69-70. The struggling . . . shame. Show meaning of each of these lines. 
71-72. Or heap . . . flame. In the time of Gray, and long before, it was 
often the practice of poets to attach themselves to some rich patron and direct 
their energies toward pleasing his vanity. 73. Far from . . . strife. Show 
that this phrase modifies ' wishes,' and not ' to stray.' 74. to stray, i.e. into 
forbidden paths. 75. CooI sequester'd vale of life. Meaning ? 

77-92. The preceding stanzas (11. 13-76) really constitute the elegy sung 
by the poet in honor of those buried in the country churchyard. The lines 
of this passage refer to the rude memorials which even these humble people 
have set up in response to that universal instinct which requires something to 
perpetuate our memory. 77. ev'n these bones : if. 11. 37-40. 79. uncouth : 
see note on L All eg. (5). 81. unletter'd, the rude verse of some unschooled, 
rustic poet. 84. rustic moralist. Meaning ? Point out the solecism in this 
line. 85. pre3^ an objective complement, — Whoever gave up as a willing 
prey to dumb Forgetfulness — this life. 'Prey' refers, not to 'who,' but to 
life, dumb forgetfulness. Discuss the adjective. 89-92. On . . . fires. 
Hales suggests that the four lines of this stanza form a climax, the picture 
being of a person (i) near death, (2) dying, (3) immediately after death, 
(4) long since dead. In whichever state he may be, there is the same yearn- 
ing for loving remembrance. 89. parting : cf. \. \ and note. 90. pious, 
prompted by affection and devotion, such as that of a child for a parent, etc. 
Cf. the expression " the pious .Eneas." 92. their wonted fires. Meaning ? 

93-116. In these lines Gray imagines himself buried, like those of whom 
he is writing, in some humble country churchyard. 95. chance, by chance. 
96. kindred spirit, perhaps some other contemplative poet. loi. yonder. 
Note how this word adds to the vividness of the picture. Cf. 'yon' (105). 
106-108. Mutt'ring . . . love. It is with something akin to humor that 
Gray pictures a poet, — himself, as he would have appeared to this curious 
observer, in. Another came, another morning. 115. lay. The word is 
used very loosely. What does it properly mean ? 

117-128. The Epitaph. In this we are given a picture, not so much of 
the actual Thomas Gray, as of Gray in the assumed character of the writer of 
this Elegy. In other words, we need not expect all the lines of the Epitaph 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 50/ 

to be strictly applicable to the personal life or character of the poet. In 
spirit they undoubtedly do apply. ii8. A youth . . . unknown. Was Gray 
known to Fortune ? to Fame ? 119. Science, in its radical sense of learning 
(from Lat. scieniia). frown'd not, i.e. smiled. Was this true of Gray ? 
120. M?!ancholy: see note on // Pens. (12). 124. a friend. What is 
meant ? 128. boSOm, in apposition with and explanatory of ' abode.' Why 
' dread ' abode ? 

Compare this Elegy with Lycidas and discuss the difference between the 
elegy and the lyric; the elegy and the reflective poem like // Penseroso. What 
order of poetry is this : presentative, representative, or creative ? Consider 
the kinds and fitness of the poetic images. What lines may be classed as su- 
premely poetic — inevitable, and why ? (See pp. xxxiii, xxxix, xcvi, xcviii, cvi.) 

GOLDSMITH 

THE DESERTED VILLAGE 

The Deserted Village, published in May, 1770, sprang at once into favor, 
passing through four editions in the first month. This popularity it has never 
lost through all the subsequent changes of literary fashion. That the influ- 
ence of Pope and his school, which had been gradually dying out, is still felt 
by Goldsmith and his intimate friend and critic. Dr. Johnson, is seen clearly 
in the work of both poets. The two features of the Classical school here most 
evident are: (i) the use of the heroic couplet, and (2) the tendency of the 
poem to be didactic. As regards the latter feature, it need only be said that 
the best parts of the poem are those in which the author is most the poet and 
least the teacher of political economy. Many attempts have been made to 
identify the 'sweet Auburn ' of the poem with the home of Goldsmith's boy- 
hood, the village of Lissoy. Undoubtedly the pictures the poet draws are 
taken from memories of his early surroundings ; yet he has used these only 
as suggestions to his imagination in building up an idealized Deserted 
Village. 

1-34. Point out the two chief topics of this stanza, naming explicitly the 
beauties of scene and the social pleasures mentioned, i. Auburn. Lissoy, 
thought to be the original of Auburn, was a village in the centre of Ireland. 
2. swain. A very common word in eighteenth-century poetry. 4. parting: 
see note to Gray's Elegy (l). 5. bowers, a favorite word with Goldsmith: 
see 11. 33, 37, 47, 86, 366. 10. COt, cottage — its original meaning. 12. de- 
cent: see note on // Pens. (36). 14. age. What figure? 17. train. 
Another of Goldsmith's favorite words. See 11. 63, 81, 135, 149, 252, 320. 
337. Few authors are so inclined to repeat certain words as he. 19. circled. 
Show just in what sense these pastimes 'circled.' 23. still, ever — its usual 
meaning in poetry. 25. simply, artlessly. 27. mistrustless. Picture the self- 
satisfied smirking of the swain, blissfully unconscious of his real appearance, 
or of the secret laughter. 

35-50. Name explicitly the features of the ' deserted village,' showing 



5o8 NOTES TO GOLDSMITH 

the points of contrast between this and the first stanza. 35. lawn : see notes 
on HAlleg. (71). 37. tyrant's hand : cf. ' one only master,' 1. 39. The man 
of wealthis able to buy up large tracts of land, turning them into parks and 
pleasure grounds, thus dispossessing the original tenant. 40. stints, limits 
its productiveness. Why? C/. note on 1. 37. 

51-56. 52. decay. In what sense and from what cause according to 
Goldsmith? 53. may, i.e. it makes little difference. 54. breath, e.g. the 
word of a king: cf. Cotter'' s Saturday Night (165). 

57-74. What change in England do these lines suggest as having taken 
place? 57. England's griefs. To what does the poet refer? 58. rood. 
How large is a rood? 63. unfeeling train: see notes on 1. 37 and 1. 17. 
67. want . . . allied, the desires which riches bring. 72. Lived in each 
look. Meaning? 73. kinder shore. Where, and in what sense ' kinder '? 

75-112. 75. parent . . . hour. Explain the figure. 76. tyrants: cf. 
1. 37. 78. tangling. Why better than tangled? 83-96. In . . . last. 
A stan/.a of pure and evidently sincere lyric. 84. and . . . share. How 
far was this true of Goldsmith's life? 86. me. The personal pronoun used 
for the reflexive. 87-88. To husband . . . repose. Explain the figure, 
bearing in mind that a candle in motion burns more rapidly than one at rest. 
93-96. as an hare . . . last. The first of the fine similes which adorn this 
poem. Explain it in detail. For 'an,' see note on 1. 268. 97-112. . . . 
past. Compare with preceding stanza as to beauty and sincerity. 

113-136. The village before and after its desolation. Contrast these 
two pictures. 114. Up yonder hill. Where is the poet as he hears the 
sounds? murmur, a word which is pure onomatopceia. Look up derivation. 
116. softened. Why? 119; 121. gabbled; whispering, onomatopneias. 
122. spoke the vacant mind, indicated the care-free mind. Others inter- 
pret this as the loud, meaningless laugh of some village idiot. Which inter- 
pretation is the better, and why? 124. And filled . . . made. The 
nightingale, near at hand, is singing the solo, while the distant sounds are his 
accompaniment. 136. sad historian. She is an historian simply from the 
fact of her being there. How does her presence emphasize the loneliness of 
the place? 

137-162. The village preacher. In creating this picture the poet is 
thought to have had in mind his father. Compare it with the " poor parson " 
of Chaucer's Prologue (477-528). 140. mansion. Look up derivation and 
cf. manse. Also see note on // Pens. (92). 142. passing, an adverb modi- 
fying rich, meaning surpassingly, forty pounds a year. ^^40 had been the 
actual income of the poet's brother Henry, a parson in Ireland. This coin- 
cidence, together with the poet's grief over his brother's recent death, inclines 
us to believe that the brother as well as the father served as a model for this 
tenderly drawn portrait. 146. By doctrines . . . hour, i.e. he was not 
what we now term a "popular preacher." 148. to raise ... to rise: cf. 
' to fawn,' 1. 145. Until after Goldsmith's time the infinitive was regularly 
used where we should now prefer a preposition with a participial object 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 509 

(gerund or gerundive construction). 154. kindred. In what sense ? 157. 
tales, nominative absolute before a participle (ablative absolute in Latin). 
This was a favorite construction with Goldsmith. Cf, other instances in 
11- 79> 95) 181. 161. to scan: see note on 1. 148. 162. pity . . . charity. 
Discuss. 

163-192. 164. And e'en . . . side. Show just what this line means. 
167-170. And as a bird . . . way. Explain in detail this simile. 172. dis- 
mayed, filled with terrible forebodings. 173. The reverend champion stood. 
In these words note the tone of quiet strength. 178. venerable, in its radi- 
cal sense, worthy of veneration. How did his looks ' ado^n ' the place? 
179. double sway. Why ' double ' ? 182. steady, honest. Discuss these 
epithets. 183. endearing wile. Describe this picture. 189-192. As some 
. . . head. Show in detail the application of this simile. 

193-216. The village master. The original of this picture is said to 
be Thomas, or " Paddy," Byrne, an old ex-soldier, who was Goldsmith's 
teacher at Lissoy. 194. unprofitably gay. Why ' unprofitably ' ? £/. Gray's 
Elegy (55-56). 195. to rule: see note on 1. 148. 199. boding tremblers. 
They trembled because of their foreboding. 209. terms and tides presage. 
He could foretell the dates in which the courts were to assemble {^cf. terms of 
court), as well as the times and seasons of religious festivals (as Christmas- 
tide, Yule-tide, etc.). 210. gauge, measure the capacity of barrels; to the 
villagers an almost incredible accomplishment. 211-216. In . . . knew. 
What words of this passage are especially apt in bringing out the humor of 
the lines? 

217-236. The village inn. 217-218. spot . . . triumphed, i.e. the 
inn: see 1. 214. 218. triumphed. How? 221. nut-brown draughts : see 
L'Alleg. (100). 222. grey-beard mirth and smiling toil. Explain these 
metonymies. 226. parlour splendours. Explain the epithet. 228. clock 
. . . clicked. Note the onomatopoeia. 229. contrived, a participle. 231. use. 
The wall doubtless had knot-holes which must be covered. 232. The twelve 
good rules, said to have, been made by Charles I, were as follows, according 
to Rolfe : (i) Urge no healths ; (2) Profane no divine ordinances ; (3) Touch 
no state matters ; (4) Reveal no secrets ; (5) Pick no quarrels ; (6) Make 
no companions ; (7) Maintain no ill opinions ; (8) Keep no bad company ; 
(9) Encourage no vice ; (10) Make no long meals ; (11) Repeat no griev- 
ances ; (12) Lay no wagers, the royal game of goose, possibly something 
like the old game of fox and geese. 235. shew, rhyming perfectly with 
' row.' Look up pronunciation in Diet. 236. chimney, fireplace. 

237-250. 238. Why 'tottering mansion'? 240. hour's importance. 
Meaning? 243. farmer's news. "The farmer's necessary visits to the 
neighboring market town would naturally make him the newsman." (Hales.) 
barber's tale, the talkativeness of barbers is an old joke. 244. wood-man's 
ballad, evidently a hunter's song. 248. mantling bliss. Explain the 
metonymy. 

251-264. A contrast between these simple pleasures of the poor and 



510 NOTES TO GOLDSMITH 

the conventional and artificial pleasures of the rich. 253. congenial, in its 
radical sense. Look up derivation. 256. The soul . . . sway. Explain 
and illustrate. 257. vacant, care-free: cf. 1. 122. 260. wanton wealth. 
Explain the epithet. 262. Toiling pleasure. Meaning ? 

265-286. An apostrophe to those who really have the good of England 
at heart, but who, in the poet's opinion, are dazzled by the growing wealth 
of the country. 267. 'Tis yours, i.e. your duty, 268. a happy. Accord- 
ing to the present usage regarding the indefinite article before aspirated k, a 
is used before monosyllables or polysyllables accented on the first syllable, as 
a hare, a history ; in other cases an is used, as an historian. 269. loads 
of freighted ore. This seems to be the money coming into England in pay- 
ment for exported goods which ought really never to have left the country, 
270, shouting Folly. Explain the metonymy. 274. the same. No useful 
products have been imported. 275. Not so the loss, etc., for the wealth 
which has come in (269) serves only to add to the luxury of the rich man, 
and to enable him to encroach on the lands that are giving sustenance to the 
poor. See note on 1. 37. 276. poor. Is this the subject or the object of ' sup- 
plied ' ? 279-280. The robe . , , growth. Thus luxuries, as well as money 
(269), have come in as equivalent for the necessities so unwisely exported, 

281. seat, z.^. country-seat. For such compounds, see note on Z'W//^^. (120), 

282. Indignant . . . green. Explain. 283-284. Around , . , supplies: 
see note to 11. 279-280. It must be admitted that, in the passage above. 
Goldsmith's ideas on political economy are very crude. 

287-302. Do you enjoy this simile more or less than the three earlier 
ones, and why? 293. solicitous to bless, anxious to charm. 299. famine 
, . . smiling land. Explain the apparent contradiction. 

303-308. 308. bare worn common is denied. Pancoast defends these 
statements of Goldsmith by quoting from Lecky's History of England zw the 
Eighteenth Century : " Whole villages which had depended on free pasture 
land and fuel dwindled and perished, and a stream of emigrants passed to 
America." 

309-336. The sorrows of the city's poor. 311. ten thousand. The 
stating of a large definite number for a large indefinite number forms a species 
of synecdoche, baneful. Find meaning by looking up derivation. 314. Ex- 
torted . . . woe. Explain. 315-318. Here . . . way. Both antithesis and 
parallelism. 316. artist, artisan. 319. dome, in its radical sense (from Lat. 
domiis, a house). 322. rattling chariots clash. Show effect of the ono- 
niatopieia. torches, used before the days of street lights. 330. Sweet as 
the primrose peeps beneath the thorn. One of the best lines in all English 
poetry of nature. 336. wheel and robes of country brown, spinning-wheel 
and the plain dress of a country girl. 

337-362. In this stanza we see a very prominent trait of Goldsmith — a 
tendency to let imagination and prejudice supply the place of exact knowledge. 
He speaks of (jeorgia as if it were tropical South America, and very probably 
knew no better. 344. Altama, the Altamaha, a river in Georgia, to, in 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 51I 

sympathy or unison with. 347-358. Those . . . skies, an admirable picture 
of a tropical jungle, but hardly Georgia ! 358. landschape : cf. this form with 
'lantskip,' LAlleg. (70). 359-362. Far . . . love. Contrast the quiet 
beauty of these lines with the horrors of the lines preceding. 

363-384. The 'parting day.' 363. parting: see note on 1. 4. 372. 
new found worlds. To what does the poet refer ? 374. only. What does 
' only ' modify, and is its position correct ? 380. cot : see note on 1. 10. 
381. thoughtless babes. Significance of the epithet. 384. silent manli- 
ness of grief. Compare the grief of the husband with that of the wife. 

385-394. Apostrophe to luxury. 386. things like these. To what 
does the poet refer ? 387-388. How do . . . destroy. Like an opiate, 
these ' potions ' first seem to soothe and give pleasure, but eventually bring 
certain ruin and death. 389-394. Kingdoms . . . round. Explain this 
figure in detail. 391. draught, of the 'potions' (387). 

395-430. The exodus of the 'rural virtues' from England and an apos- 
trophe to departing ' Poetry.' 398-402. I . . . strand. These lines form 
a good illustration of the figure called vision. 408. Still first . . . invade : 
.see note on // Pens. (46-48). 409. degenerate times. This was a very 
barren period in the history of English poetry. Though Johnson and Gray 
were living, neither had written for years ; while Burns and Cowper did not 
write until fifteen years after The Deserted Village was published. The poet 
professes to ascribe this situation to 'degenerate times' in England, during 
which the Muse was ' neglected and decried.' 412. My shame in crowds, my 
solitary pride. Goldsmith's appearance in public was not imposing. He wrote 
better than he talked. The actor, Garrick, said of him in his famous mock- 
epitaph : — 

" Here lies Nolly Goldsmith, for shortness call'd Noll, 
Who wrote like an angel, but talk'd like poor Poll " ; 

but it is more than likely that much of " Noll's " Irish humor escaped his more 
deliberate English friends. 413-414. Thou source . . . keep'st me so. 
Goldsmith was notoriously one of the most improvident of men. He never 
learned the value of money, and spent it as fast or faster than he earned it. 
415. nobler arts. To what arts does the poet refer, and how is poetry a guide 
by which they excel ? 418. Torno's cliffs, z.i?. the cliffs overhanging the river 
Tornea or Torneo, between northern Sweden and Russia. Pambamarca, a 
mountain near Quito in Ecuador, South America. 419. equinoctial fervours, 
torrid heat. 421. prevailing over time. Discuss. 422. Redress, make 
man forget. 427-430. That . . . sky. These lines are said to have been 
added by Dr. Johnson. Can you detect a difference from the rest of the poem 
in style ? Show why, according to the poet, ' trade's proud empire ' is like an 
artificial wall, doomed to be swept away, while the ' self-dependent power ' 
of a ' bold peasantry ' will forever resist the elements. 

Point out in this poem the poetic figures that you consider to be most 
fitting, and classify them. Compare the idyllic descriptions with those of 
U Allegro, and the character-sketches with Chaucer's in the Prologue. How 



512 NOTES TO BURNS 

do Goldsmith's imagination and humor compare with Pope's in the Rape of the 
Lock? Is the heroic couplet more or less "run on" ? (See pp. xliii, xlvii, 
Ixiv.) 

BURNS 

THE cotter's SATURDAY NIGHT 

This poem was written in 1785, when Burns was on the farm at Mossgiel. 
As a simple pastoral idyl it is not excelled by many poems of our language. 
While it does not possess the delicacy and fire of some of the shorter lyrics, it 
gives noble and sincere expression to what, in spite of his frailties, the poet 
knew to be a true ideal of Christian manhood. We are told that Burns was 
led to write this poem because of the vivid impression made upon him by the 
nightly family worship in his father's household — an experience to which he 
had been accustomed from a child. As his brother Gilbert records, Robert 
always " thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, 
' Let us worship God,' used by a decent sober head of a family, introducing 
family worship." Burns's father belonged to the class of which the poem 
treats, and was, no doubt, to a very considerable extent, the original from 
which " the cotter " was drawn. In other respects, however, the picture, 
though typical, is imaginary, and refers to thousands of other Scotch peasant 
families as well as to that of Burns. 

1-9. Give the metre and rhyme of this stanza. See Introduction, 
p. Ixxxiii, and the notes on Faerie Qiieeiie. i. friend, Robert Aiken, a solicitor 
in Ayr, who was a life-long friend and patron of the poet. 2. No mercenary 
bard: cf. note to Gray's Elegy (71-72). 5. simple Scottish lays, the 
humble Ayrshire dialect which Burns has immortalized. The word ' lays ' 
was used loosely by eighteenth-century poets. Cf. Gray's Elegy (115). 

10-27. 10. blaws, blows. The Scotch dialect frequently uses a in place 
of the English 0. wl', with. The final consonant sound is regularly omitted 
in many Scotch words. Cf o' for of ; a' for all ; an' for and ; youthfu' for 
youthful, sugh, sough : see Z)tV/. 12. frae, from, pleugh, plough. 13. craws: 
see note on 1. lo. 14. Cotter, the inhabitant of a cot. See note on Deserted 
Village (10). moil, toil or drudgery. Look up derivation and successive 
meanings. 18. And weary . . . bend: cf. Gray's Elegy (3). 21-22. Th* 
. . . glee. The Scotch dialect seems to be especially adapted to the fit 
expression of simple home life and its emotions. Try to turn these words 
into English, and note their loss in effect. 21. stacher, toddle with short 
tottering steps, as a child. 22. flichterin, fluttering. 23. wee bit ingle, 
cosy little fire or fireplace with its cheerful blaze. 24. wifie. The ie is a 
diminutive, frequently met with in Scotch, suggesting endearment. 26. cark- 
ing, fretting or worrying. 27. toil, pronounced tile. 

28-54. 28. Belyve, presently. 30. ca', drive, herd, herd the neighbors' 
cows, tentie, attentive. 33. youthfu' : see note on 1. 10. e'e, eye. 34. braw, 
fine, handsome. 35. deposite. Note accent as shown by rhythm. sair-WOn, 
hard-earned. 38. spiers, asks, inquires. 40. uncos, news or unknown 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 513 

happenings, from uncouth (unknown). See note on H Alleg. (5). 44. Gars 
auld claes, makes old clothes, amaist, almost. 45. a' wi' : see note on 
1. 10. 46-54. Their . . . aright, the father's 'admonition' (45). 47. 
younkers, youngsters. 48. eydent, diligent. 49. jauk, fool away their time. 
51. duty. The word here evidently refers to their regular morning and 
evening prayers. Cf. the next three lines. 

55-72. 59. wily. Explain the unusual sense in which this word is used 
here. 62. hafflins, half. 63. Weel . . . rake. Explain this line as a happy 
ending to the little drama of the stanza. 64. ben, into the inner or living 
room — one of the two rooms of the typical Scotch cottage. 66. no ill ta'en. 
Compare, as to effect, with some English equivalent, such as well received. 
67. cracks, chats, trying to make the youth " feel at home." Kye, cows. 69. 
blate an' lathfu', bashful and shy or sheepish. 70. wiles: cf. 'wily,' 1. 59. 
72. bairn, another word inimitable in English. Cf. 1. 28. lave, rest, i.e. 
other girls. 

73-90. Compare these and other English stanzas of the poem with those 
of the Scotch dialect. Which do you enjoy the more, and why ? 75. I've 
paced . . . round, a confession of the poet, only too true. 78. cordial, heart- 
reviving drink, vale: cf. the expression "vale of tears." 81. thorn, the 
white thorn or hawthorn. 

91-117. 91. board: see Diet, for the history of this word. 92. hale- 
some parritch, wholesome porridge, probably of oatmeal. 93. soupe, milk. 
In general it means any liquid used as food, hawkie, cow. 94. 'yont the 
hallan, beyond the partition wall, where, in the case of the more humble cot- 
tages, the cow was kept. 96. weel-hain'd kebbuck, well-kept cheese, fell, 
sharp, tasty. 98. garrulous, almost over-talkative in her attempt to be 
entertaining. 99. towmond, twelvemonth, sin' lint was i' the bell, since 
flax was in full blossom. 100. supper, a nominative absolute before a par- 
ticiple. Cf. the ablative absolute in Latin. 103. ha'-Bible, originally the 
Bible kept in the " hall " or chief room of the house. Later the term came 
to be applied to the large family Bible of every household, the original force 
' ha',' disappearing. 104. bonnet, the blue woollen cap of the Scotch peasant. 
The word 'bonnet ' as a term for a man's head covering, though now restricted 
to Scotland, was once common in England. Cf. Lye. (104). 105. lyart 
haffets (half-heads), gray temples, the locks about his temples being mixed 
with gray. 106. strains. Determine the syntax. The reference seems to 
be to the Psalms. 107. wales, selects or chooses. 108. Let us worship : 
see the introduction to these notes, iii. Dundee, an old Scottish psalm tune, 
dating from the middle of the sixteenth century. 112; 113. Martyrs ; Elgin, 
also favorite Scottish psalm tunes. 113. beets, adds fuel to, i.e. the psalm feeds 
the flame already in their hearts. 114. lays : see note on 1. 5. 115. Com- 
par'd . . . tame. This line has been sometimes cited to illustrate the Scotch 
prejudice of Burns. However, it seems to show nothing more than a feeling 
of the inadequacy of ' Italian trills ' as sacred music. The poet acknowledges 
the beauty of Italian music in the expression ' tickled ears.' 

2L 



514 NOTES TO BURNS 

118-162. iig. Abram . . . high: see Genesis xv. 120-121. Moses 
. , . progeny: see Exodus yis\\. 121. Amalek, the tribe that attacked the 
Israelites in the desert. 122-123. Or how ... ire : see // Samuel ix. 
13-17. 122. royal bard, David. 124. Or . . . cry: see Job iii. 125. Or 
. . . fire, the prophecies in the book of Isaiah, wild, seraphic fire. Explain. 

126. holy seers, the Prophets, tune the sacred lyre. Explain the figure. 

127. Christian volume, the New Testament. 128-130. How . . . head, 
The four Gospels. 131. How . . . sped, the Acts. 132. The precepts . . . 
land, the various Epistles. 133-135. How he (St. John) . . . command, 
the book of Revelation. See especially chap, xviii. 133. Patmos, an island 
in the Mediterranean, whither John was banished, and where he saw the visions 
recorded in Revelation. 135. Bab'lon's doom. This has been interpreted 
to signify the downfall of injustice and oppression, evils which were notoriously 
characteristic of Babylon. Observe that in these two stanzas the poet gives 
a running sketch of the whole content of the Scriptures. 138. Hope . . . 
wing. The poet is loosely quoting this line from Pope's Windsor Forest. 
140. uncreated rays. Meaning ? 144. circling Time. Explain. 150. sacer- 
dotal stole. Look up these words, and explain. 156. parent-pair, a quaint 
and expressive term. 

163-189. 165. Princes... Vxa^^: cf. Deserted Village {^^tS^ — lines 
which Burns probably had in mind. 166. An . . . God. This famous line 
is from Pope's Essay on Man. 167. certes, an archaic word, meaning truly. 
176-177. And . . . vile : cf. with Goldsmith's arraignment of luxury in the 
Deserted Village. 180. And . . . isle. Explain this fine figure. 182. Wal- 
lace, one of the Scottish national heroes, leader of the Scots when they tried 
to gain their freedom in 1297. 188. still, ever, always, patriot-bard: cf. 
with this hopeful prayer the despondency of Goldsmith's Deserted Village, 
where he sees poetry leaving the land. 

TAM o' SHANTER 

While a certain Captain Grose was compiling a work on the Antiquities 
of Scotland, he was requested by Burns to include a picture of AUoway Kirk, 
the burial place of the poet's father. Grose consented on condition that 
Burns should write a witch poem to be published with the drawing of the 
Kirk, since it had always been connected with stories of witches. The result 
was Taino^Shanter, v;x\i\.en in 1790, and published in Grose's Antiquities of 
Scotland in 1 79 1. The original of the poem is said to have been a tenant of 
Shanter farm (hence 'Tarn of Shanter ' ), Douglas Graham by name, a char- 
acter in many respects a fit model for the picture of Tam. Sharing the 
honors as an original for the story was Graham's tailless gray mare. 

It is said that the poem was written in a single day. Many, including 
Burns himself, regarded it as its author's best work. Although it pretends to 
be nothing more than a jolly tale, it shows dramatic force and real poetic 
power. The briskness and fun are subserved by the lively tetrameter line. 



TAM C SHANTER 5 I 5 

The motto of the poem is that used by the early Scotch poet, Douglas, to 
preface his translation of the sixth book of the jEneid. 

1-12. I. chapman, pedler. billies, fellows (used rather contemptu- 
ously). 2. drouthy, thirsty. 4. tak the gate, take the road, depart. 'Gate' 
here means road and is an entirely different word from the gate of a fence. 
5. bousin at the nappy, boozing on strong ale. 6. fou, full, unco, ex- 
tremely. 7. Scot's miles. The Scotch mile is longer than the English 
mile by several hundred yards. 8. mosses, marshy places, slaps, holes in 
wall or hedge. 

13-16. 13. truth, objective complement after ' fand.' Tam found this 
to be a truth. 14. ae, one. 15. wham, whom, used instead of which. 
See note on Cotter'' s Saturday Night (10). 

17-32. 19. tauld thee weel. This is one of those inimitable Scotch 
expressions that are almost impossible to render in English, skellum, good- 
for-nothing scoundrel. 20. bletherin, chattering, jabbering, blellum, idle 
talker. 23. ilka, every, melder, grist of grain. Formerly, whenever the 
farmer needed meal or flour he took his grist of grain to the mill to be ground 
for him. 24. siller, money. 25. ca'd a shoe on, shod. 27. Lord's house, 
the ordinary Scotch term for a church. 28. Kirkton Jean, Jean who lived 
in the church town, or ' kirkton.' The original of the character is supposed to be 
a certain Jean Kennedy, who kept a public house in Kirkoswald. 30. Doon, 
a river near Burns's home in Ayrshire. 31. warlocks, wizards, men supposed 
to be in league with the Evil One. 31. mirk, darkness. 32. Alloway's 
auld haunted kirk. This old church, now a roofless ruin, and deserted even 
in Burns's time, stood only a very short distance from the poet's birthplace. 

33-36. 33. it gars me greet. It makes me weep. For 'gars' cf. 
Cotter's Saturday Night (44). 36. despises: cf. ' despising,' 1. 82. 

37-58. Here the story begins. 37. ae : cf.\. 14. 38. unco : cf. 1. 6, 
Note Tarn's perfect enjoyment. 39. ingle: cf. Cotter's Saturday A^ght (23). 
40. reaming swats, foaming glasses of new ale. 41. Souter, shoemaker. 
46. ay, continually. Why? 51. rair, roar. 54. nappy: <:/ 1. 5. 55. lades, 
loads. Discuss the comparison between the ' minutes ' and the ' bees.' 

59-78. Here, as in the Cottei-'s Saturday Night, Burns drops the broad 
Scotch for the polished English, the sharp contrast heightening the effect 
of both. Discuss each of these four similes showing the respects in which 
pleasures are like 'poppies,' 'snowflakes,' the 'borealis,' and the 'rainbow.' 
67. tether, hold back, tide: see note on Des. Vil. (209). 68. maun, must. 
69. key-stane, the central or topmost stone of an arch. Hence of ' night's 
black arch,' the ' keystone ' is midnight. 75. speedy gleams. What is re- 
ferred to ? 77-78. That night . . . hand. Tam might also have known 
it, and would have feared accordingly, had he been more sober. 

79-104. A recital of the uncanny spots which Tam must pass. 79. mear, 
mare. 81. skelpit, rode on quickly, scurried, dub, puddle. 82. despis- 
ing, utterly indifferent to. 83. Whiles, at times. 85. whiles . . . cares. 
Picture Tarn's half-drunken caution. 86. bogles, spectres or evil spirits : cf. 



5l6 NOTES TO BURNS 

bogie. 88. ghaists and houlets, ghosts and owls. 90. smoor'd, smothered. 
91. birks, a clump of birch trees, meikle stane, big stone. 92. brak's 
neck-bane, broke his neck bone. 93. whins, patches of furze : see Diet. 
cairn, pile of stones. 95. aboon, above. 98. doubling storm. Explain the 
adjective. 99. The lightnings . . . pole to pole, in Tam's excited imagi- 
nation. 103. bore, crevice. 

105-114. 105. John Barleycorn. Scotch whiskey. 107. tippenny, 
twopenny ale. Even this makes us bold. 108. usquebae, whiskey. 
109. swats sae ream'd : cf. 1. 40. no. Fair play, only give him fair play. 
boddle, a small copper coin, equivalent to twopence, iii. right sair aston- 
ish'd. The delightful humor of this line is well-nigh untranslatable. 

115-142. The sights that Tam saw. 116. cotillion, here accented on 
the last syllable: see Diet, brent new, brand-new. 117. strathspeys, a 
lively Scottish dance, but somewhat slower than a reel. 119. winnock- 
bunker, window-seat. 121. towzie, shaggy, unkempt. tyke, dog, cur. 
123. screw'd, pressed or squeezed, pipes, bagpipes, gart: ef. gar. Cot. 
Sat. N. (44). skirl, scream (the regular word used for the noise of the 
bagpipes). 124. dirl, ring, tremble with the noise. 125. presses, clothes- 
presses. 127. cantrip, trick, sleight, an obsolete adjective meaning cun- 
ning or dexterous. 129. heroic Tam. Why is he called 'heroic' ? 130. 
haly table, the communion table. 131. gibbet: see Diet, aims, irons. 132. 
Twa . . . bairns. These two babies, only a span long (literally nine inches), 
according to the old belief, had gone to Hell because they had died before 
being christened. Hence the appearance of their tiny bones amongst those 
of thieves and murderers. 134. gab, mouth. 140. stack to the heft, stuck 
to the handle. 

143-179. 143. glowr'd. How does the word differ here from its usual 
meaning? 144-147. The mirth . . . cleekit. Observe how perfectly the 
rapid movement of the lines keeps pace with the increasing excitement of the 
dance, cleekit, swung around by joining hands. 148. carlin, old woman or 
witch, swat and reekit, reeked with sweat. In a dozen lines, here omitted, 
the ugliness of the old witches is emphasized. 161. Lowping, leaping, fling- 
ing, wildly dancing, crummock, a staff or stick with a crooked handle often 
used by an old woman or witch. 163. kennt, knew, fu' brawlie, very well. 
walie, strapping, fine-looking. 165. core, an obsolete form of corps. 166. 
kenn'd, the participle of the verb whose past tense is 'kennt' (163). 168. 
perish'd, caused to perish. 169. shook, probably means threshed out the 
standing grain, meikle, much: ef. 1. 91. bear, barley. 171. cutty sark, 
short garment. Paisley, a Scottish town noted for its linen manufactories. 
harn, coarse linen. 174. vauntie, proud of it. 176. coft, bought. 177. 
twa pund Scots. A pound Scots was worth about forty cents. 

179-205. 179. maun: ef.\. 68. cour, recover. 181. lap and flang: 
ef. 1. 161. 184. een, eyes. 185. glowr'd: ef.\. 143. fidg'd, fidgeted, fu' 
fain, very moist. He was working hard. i85. hotch'd, moved about awk- 
wardly or uneasily. 187. ae caper, syne (then) anither, objects of some 



T INTERN ABBE V 5 1 7 

such expression as having witnessed. i88. tint, lost. 193. bizz . . . fyke, 
bustle out angrily. 194. byke, hive. 195. open, a hunting term, meaning 
to bark on scenting the game, pussie, here a hare being hunted ; the 
' mortal foes ' are the dogs. 200. eldritch, unearthly, ghastly. 

201-224. 201-208. Ah . . . cross. How does the apostrophe to Tarn 
and to Maggie emphasize their predicament ? 201. fairin, reward, originally 
a present given at a fair, brig, bridge : <r/I the " Brig of Turk " in Ladj of 
the Lake. 207. may toss, in defiance. 208. A running . . . cross. It is 
an old superstition that evil spirits or witches are powerless to cross a running 
stream. 210. fient a tail, never a tail. 213. ettle, design or intention. 214. 
wist, knew. 217. hale, sound, entire : (-/"." hale and hearty." 217. carlin: 
cf. 1. 148. 218. scarce a stump. As a matter of fact, it is said the proto- 
type of Maggie lost her tail through the work of jokers, while she was outside 
of the tavern, patiently waiting for her ' droughty ' master. The original of 
Tam, however, always held that the loss of his poor mare's tail was due to the 
witches of AUoway Kirk. See introduction to these notes. 

WORDSWORTH 

TINTERN ABBEY 

This poem shares with the Ancient Mariner the distinction of forming by 
far the most noteworthy portion of the Lyrical Ballads. It is not only one 
of the best poems Wordsworth ever wrote, but is, in the opinion of many 
critics, one of the best poems ever written. Professor Saintsbury, in his His- 
tory of English Literature, expresses this opinion as follows : " Perhaps twice 
only, in Tintern Abbey and in the Ode on the Intimations of Immortality, is 
the full, the perfect Wordsworth with his half-pantheistic worship of nature, 
informed and chastened by an intense sense of human conduct, of reverence, 
and almost of humbleness, displayed in the utmost poetic felicity. And these 
two are accordingly among the great poems of the world. No unfavorable 
criticism on either has hurt them, though it may have hurt the critics. They 
are, if not in every smallest detail, yet as a whole, invulnerable and unperish- 
able. They could not be better done." 

Wordsworth has this to say concerning the composition of Tintern Abbey : 
" No poem of mine was composed under circumstances more pleasant for me 
to remember than this. I began it upon leaving Tintern, after crossing the 
Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol in the evening, after a 
ramble of four or five days with my sister. Not a line of it was altered, and 
not any part of it written down till I reached Bristol. It was published almost 
immediately after" (in the Lyrical Ballads, 1798). 

As will be noted, the poem is in blank verse. Since there are no stanzaic 
or "paragraph" divisions to distinguish units of thought, — such as are found 
in the blank verse of Milton, Thomson, or Tennyson, — we have attempted 
in these notes to indicate the natural divisions. 

1-22. I. Five years. From this we may determine the poet's age on his 



5l8 NOTES TO WORDSWORTH 

former visit to the Wye. 3-4. These waters . . . springs. The Wye rises 
near Mt. Plinlimmon in Wales, and flows south one hundred and thirty miles 
into the Severn. Tintern Abbey is a famous ruin in Monmouthshire. Note 
the onomatopceia in these lines. 5-8. cliffs . . . sky. Describe the picture. 
12. this season, July. 16-22. farms . . . alone. Note how the seclusion 
is accentuated by details of description. 16. sportive wood. Why 'sportive '? 

22-49. Wordsworth shows how the memory of his former visit has in- 
fluenced him during the past five years : (l) 11. 25-30 ; (2) 11. 30-35; (3) 
11. 35-49. 24. As . . . eye. Explain. 29. purer mind. What does this 
mean ? 30. feelings. Syntax ? What are ' feelings of unremembered 
pleasure,' and how are they like the ' unremembered acts,' 1. 34 ? 38-40. 
In which . . . world. What is the mood of these lines ? In what sense 
is the world ' unintelligible ' ? 42. affections, the emotional in man as con- 
trasted with the more coldly intellectual. 43-49. the breath . . . things. 
This may be described as a state of spiritual yet mystical exaltation — a 
state where the soul of man seems to rise above its bodily limitations and 
come into direct communion with the Divine, where the mysteries of life are 
solved. The remembrance of the ' beauteous forms ' of nature, the poet claims, 
leads him into this ' blessed mood.' Consider carefully the fitness of the 
imagery here and elsewhere in the poem, and determine the names of the 
poetic figures. (See Introduction, pp. xxxix-xlvii. ) 

49-57. The solace received from memories of the Wye. 51-52, shapes 
Of joyless daylight. Note the oxymoron (Introduction, p. xlviii). To 
what does he refer ? 

58-65. 60. Sad perplexity, as he tries to make the actual scene before 
him conform to his memory-pictures of the past five years. 64-65. life . . . 
years. Explain, in the light of the poet's former experience. 

65-83. His attitude toward nature at the time of his former visit. De- 
scribe it. On the poetic use of memory-images, see Introduction, p. xlii. 
Exemplify here. 65. SO, refers to what? 73-74. The coarser . . . gone 
by. In this parenthesis is hinted a still earlier attitude toward nature — the 
boy's animal joy in mere living. 75-80. To me . . . love. Here the passion 
for nature was entirely sensuous — full of 'aching joys' (oxymoron again) 
in the sights and sounds about him. 81-82. remoter . . . supplied. A 
suggestion of the poet's present and maturer attitude toward nature. 

83-102. The recompense for having lost his former ' dizzy raptures.' 
Cf. the similar passage in the Ode on Immortality (l 76-187). 88-93. For 
. . . subdue. Explain this first compensatory gift. With the last three lines 
cf. 11. 184-185 of the Ode. 91. The still, sad music of humanity: see 
Introduction on poetic touchstones, and point out others in this poem, 
justifying your choice. 93-102. The second and greater of the 'gifts' (86). 
Through nature and in nature the poet sees God. An eloquent and artistic 
exposition of pantheism, a doctrine that strongly attracted Wordsworth in his 
earlier years. God's dwelling is in nature and ' in the mind of man,' i.e. these 
things are but different expressions of God ; the totality of them is God. The 



ODE ON IMMORTALITY 519 

poet seems to have still held to this belief, though in a somewhat modified 
form, when he wrote the Ode on Jmmortality. 100. Amotion and a spirit. 
Syntax, and significance of the words? loi. thinking things, 'the mind 
of man,' 1. 99. objects of all thought, e.g. nature. 

102-111. 102. still. Does this mean always or even yet ? 106- 
107. both . . . perceive. The poet here defines his conception of nature. 
It is partly material, yet partly ideal — projected from his mind, created by 
his ' eye and ear.' Though partly objective it is also partly subjective. Nature 
is not the same to all beholders, because they " see it with different eyes." 
107-111. well pleased . . . being. Explain carefully each of these meta- 
phors, showing in what sense nature is ' anchor,' ' nurse,' ' guide,' ' guardian,' 
' soul of moral being.' 

111-134. But even if the poet were without the comfort of these 
maturer thoughts, he would still be able to call back his former pleasures, 
through the companionship and inspiration of his sister. 112. To what 
does ' thus ' refer ? 115. dearest Friend. Dorothy Wordsworth, who devoted 
her whole life to helping and inspiring her brother. She was herself a woman 
of fine intellect and real poetic insight. 121-134. and this . . . blessings. 
What blessings does the poet feel that nature is able to confer, and against 
what can she make us proof ? 

134-159. 134. Therefore. What thoughts does this word recall ? 
137-139- in after years . . . pleasure. Describe Wordworth's sister in 
the light of these lines, and of 11. 1 16-119. i40- mansion, in its radical sense 
(Lat. manere). 148-149. gleams Of past existence, i.e. the poet's own 
former existence: see 11. I16-120. 149-159. wilt . . . sake. Note the 
peaceful conclusion. In this respect cf. Lye. (186-193) and note. 

ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY 

CHILDHOOD 

This poem, in many respects the greatest of English odes, was written, partly 
in 1803 and partly in 1806, during Wordsworth's residence at Grasmere. The 
difficulty of the poem is in part due to profundity, but more to the fact that 
it is the record of experiences and reasonings shared by few besides the writer 
himself. In speaking of this poem, Wordsworth says : " Nothing was more 
difficult for me in childhood than to admit the notion of death as a state 
applicable to my own being. I used to brood over the stories of Enoch and 
Elijah, and almost persuade myself that, whatever might become of others, I 
should be translated in something of the same way to heaven. . . . With a 
feeling congenial to this, I was often unable to think of external things as 
having external existence, and I communed with all I saw as something not 
apart from, but inherent in, my own immaterial nature. Many times while 
going to school have I grasped at a wall or a tree to recall myself from this 
abyss of idealism to the reality." 

The poet then takes this feeling of his childhood, which he professes to 



520 NOTES TO WORDSWORTH 

believe all other children share (?), as a proof, or at least an 'intimation,' 
of an eternity of the soul's existence, not only beyond this life, but also 
previous to its so-called " birth " into this earthly phase of its being. The 
soul which enters the body of the babe has come direct from heaven ; it 
remembers its former home ; and this accounts, according to Wordsworth, for 
the child's instinctive attitude toward nature, — the handiwork of God. The 
soul, moreover, after its earthly existence, is destined to go back to that heaven 
whence it came ; and thus is explained the poet's early instinctive attitude 
toward death. The ode as a whole well illustrates that conjunction of ideal, 
real, and aesthetic, which has been emphasized in the Introduction to 
this volume, p. cv, as essential to poetry of the highest kind. 

I. What two experiences are suggested in this stanza ? 4. celestial light, 
because the soul was fresh from God. 

II. Show the relation between this stanza and the latter half of Stanza I. 
16. glorious birth. What does this mean as applied to the sunshine ? 18. 
there hath passed. What is this glory that has passed away ? 

III. A stanza in which the poet proceeds upon the theory that he has 
only imagined the loss recited in Stanza II. In this stanza and the first four- 
teen lines of the next he tries to convince himself that nature means the 
same to him as she has always meant ; that he understands and appreciate? 
her as fully as he has ever done. 19-22. a thought of grief. Expressed in 
11. 9 and 17-18. 23. timely utterance. This 'utterance' is found in 11. 24-51. 
24. I again am strong, i.e. I am determined to convince myself that I ?n\ 
strong. 25. The . . . steep. Explain this fine line, showing its effect upon 
the poet's fresh determination. 28-36. The winds . . . boy. Discuss the 
metrical effect of these lines. Note how they rise to a metrical climax coinci- 
dent with the course of the poet's endeavor to persuade himself that nature 
is still to him what she used to be. What is meant by the 'fields of sleep' 
1. 28? 

IV. What does the poet continue to do in the first half of this stanza? 
See note on Stanza III; but note that the very repetitions found in 11. 24, 26, 
40-41, 42, and 51 indicate that he is more than half-conscious of the 
futility of his attempt at self-delusion. 51. I hear, I hear, with joy I hear. 
But just as he reaches this second climax of attempted self-delusion, knowing 
that it is in defiance of his better wisdom, his eye happens to rest on a specific 
tree, a field, a pansy. 52-58. But . . . dream. The moment of disillusion. 
While talking of nature in general he has been able to keep up his self- 
deception; but as soon as he looks upon this and the other definite object 
that his eyes have beheld in childhood, he is forced to admit that his ' timely 
utterance' has been in vain; that now he sees no longer with the direct vision 
of childhood, but as '' through a glass, darkly." 57. visionary gleam. Does 
this refer to 11. 24-50 or to the visions of youth, which now are gone? Dis- 
cuss. 58. the glory and the dream. Discuss as above. Also decide 
whether 'glory' and 'dream' refer to the same or to different things. 

[Thus far the poet had presented his problem : What has become of the 



ODE ON IMMORTALITY 521 

experiences of my childhood? Why have they passed from me? The stu- 
dent must bear in mind that at this point the poem was laid aside for over 
two years. The added stanzas present a solution of the problem stated in 
the preceding stanzas. Re-read the introduction to these notes, and endeavor 
to comprehend the very explicit title of the poem, Intimations of Immortality 
from Recollections of Early ChildIioodJ\ 

V. Here is pictured the gradual fading of the glories, the disappearance 
of which had been lamented in the earlier portion of the poem. 59. Our 
. . . forgetting. The philosophy of the poem is succinctly stated in this 
line ; but ' birth ' must be understood, not as the moment of entering this 
world, but as the whole process of becoming " of the world " — the develop- 
ment from our physical birth to our maturity. The rest of the stanza is but 
an expansion, in detail, of its first line. 60. our life's Star. Why is our soul 
thus designated? 67-77. Heaven . . . day. Note the four stages of our 
development, and the gradual disappearance of the ' clouds of glory.' Discuss, 
in this and the other stanzas, the fitness of the poetic figures, and determine 
their kinds. The student of poetic discrimination will find here and else- 
where in the ode noble examples of the " touchstone " or inevitable line. Dis- 
cover and discuss : see Introduction, pp. cvi-cviii. 

VI. A hint at an explanation of how we have come to throw away so 
precious an inheritance. But Earth does not act thus through carelessness, 
or through a wilful desire to thwart our highest happiness. She knows noth- 
ing of these visions, can know nothing of them; and so, after her own stand- 
ards of happiness, blunderingly, yet not without tenderness, she tries to give 
pleasure to the child intrusted to her care. 

VII. Simply an expansion of Stanza VI. Earth's method of weaning her 
foster-child from his divine inheritance is by interesting him in phases of her 
own existence. By imitating these, he inevitably grows into and becomes 
a part of the world and its conventionalities. 87. A six years' Darling. 
Wordsworth took as the model for the pictures of this stanza Hartley Cole- 
ridge, the little son of his friend, the poet, pigmy. Look up derivation. 
91-108. See . . . imitation. Is it true that we tend to become that which 
we imitate; and, if so, what bearing does this fact have upon the problem 
of the poem? 104. "humorous stage." "stage on which are exhibited the 
humors of mankind; that is, according to the Elizabethan sense of the word, 
their whims, follies, caprices, odd manners." (Hales.) Cf Ben Jonson's 
use of the word in the title. Every Man in his Humour. 

VIII. Notice to whom the apostrophe of these lines is addressed as indi- 
cated in the latter half of the stanza. 109-110. Thou . . . immensity. 
How does his ' exterior semblance ' ' belie ' his ' soul's immensity ' ? ni. best 
Philosopher. In what sense is he this? 112. heritage. What is the heritage 
which he still keeps? Eye among the blind. Explain. 113. deaf and silent. 
Give the syntax and the significance of these words. 114. Haunted. What 
does this modify? 113-114. eternal deep . . . eternal mind. What is meant 
by these? 116. do rest. Note the force of this. To him a heritage of 



522 



NOTES TO WORDSWORTH 



eternal truth has descended, which, when lost, no lifetime of thought or 
labor can replace. Why, then (124-129), is he so willing to give up this 
birthright for the " mess of pottage " which the world offers? 118. lost. What 
does this modify? of the grave, i.e. total or absolute darl<ness. 120. Broods 
. . . Slave. Explain the simile and the metaphor. 124. provoke, in its 
radical sense (Lat./r^, {ox\.\i-\-vocare, to call). 

IX. Note again the title of the poem, since the title expresses that for which 
this stanza is a song of thanlifulness. The poet has, it is true, forever lost 
'the glory and the dream' of his childhood; but in the recollection that this 
glory had once been his, he has attained to a truth far more precious than the 
unreasoning possession of his former memories, heaven-derived though they 
were. He has learned that truth possesses value just in proportion as it is 
worked out through reason; that this is growth, and growth is what makes 
life worth living. 130. embers, our adult years. 136. most worthy. Not 
a superlative here. It means very worthy ; worthy enough in its way. 
142-143. obstinate questionings Of sense : see introduction to these notes, 
where the poet tells his own experience. 147. High instincts. Show how 
these also are ' intimations of immortality.' 152. the fountain light of 
all our day. In what sense? 154-156. make . . . Silence, 'to make our 
noisy years' (why 'noisy'?) seem only moments when compared with the 
eternal life of the soul — thus going to prove immortality. 162-168. Hence 
. . . evermore. Hence in these, our later years, though the visions of our 
childhood are gone forever, our souls, by reasonings based on memories of 
the former existence of those visions, ' have sight of that immortal sea which 
brought us hither.' As far as the argument is concerned, this may be 
regarded as the end of the poem. 

X. Observe the return to the theme of the opening stanzas. Note the 
firmer and surer tone now that all temptation toward self-delusion has passed. 
The poet can afford now to admit his loss, since he has found for it rich com- 
pensation. Indeed, it is really no loss; for ' What has been must ever be ' is 
the lesson of the 'years that bring the philosophic mind.' 

XI. Still in reference to the opening stanzas, showing the poet's attitude 
toward nature in his later life. Note the tone of quiet reflection, marking the 
end of the spiritual struggle and suggested by the smooth pentameter line. 
How does the metre of this stanza compare with that of preceding stanzas ? 
Look up, in the Introduction to this book, the subject of the ode, pp. Ixxxv, 
xcvii. 190. Yet, even now, as truly as before. 191-192. delight . . . sway. 
What ' delight ' does he mean, and in what sense has he come under a ' more 
ha!)itual sway ' ? 200. race, contest on the race course; against what, and 
what palms of victory has he won ? 201-204. Thanks . . . tears. Note 
the gentle cadence of the verses with which this true poet and lover of nature 
in its deeper and holier meanings brings this poem of stress to a close. The 
last two lines are an example of the poetic touchstone, to be carefully con- 
sidered and never forgotten. 



ODE TO DUTY 523 



ODE TO DUTY 

The Ode to Duty was written in 1805 and published two years later. Its 
lofty tone, its splendid imagery, its deep seriousness, its noble conception of 
the beauty of service — all mark it as a poem which could scarcely have been 
written by any other English poet, save possibly Milton. It is a poem which 
will bear many readings and much study, for its thoughts, though on the sur- 
face apparently simple, are really as deep as the foundations of the universe. 
As regards the form of the poem Wordsworth has said, "This ode is on the 
model of Gray's Ode to Adversity, which is copied from Horace's Ode to For- 
tune." In the Ode to Duty we see a side of Wordsworth quite distinct from 
that shown in Tintern Abbey and the Ode on Immortality. 

1-24. I. Stern Daughter of the Voice of God. By the voice of God 
the poet possibly means conscience — the power of judging right from wrong, 
the consciousness of duty. Discuss this and show in what sense Duty is the 
' daughter ' of this Voice. Conscience, however, may be synonymous with 
Duty; if so, what is the 'Voice of God' ? 3-8. Who . . . law. How 
may we conceive of Duty as a ' guide,' a ' rod,' a ' victory,' a ' law ' ? 7-8. From 
. . . humanity. In what sense can Duty do this ? 9-16. There are . . . 
cast. What kind of people does the stanza describe ? Compare the type of 
character sketched in these lines with that portrayed in the sestet of the 
sonnet, It is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and Free. 12. genial sense of 
youth, kindly impulse. That closeness to God which makes it natural to 
do right without any conscious attempt to follow Duty. 17-24. Serene . . . 
need. Does this third stanza relate to a different class of people, or to the 
same class as the preceding ? In 11. 17-20 the poet is imagining some future 
age when mankind is sure to do right from the sheer love and joy of doing it. 
Observe 'will be' (17 and 18) and 'even now' (21). 22. not unwisely 
bold. Explain. What are the rhyme and metre of the stanzas of this poem ? 
Discuss the quality and sequence of vowel and consonant sounds : see 
Introduction, pp. Ixix-lxxvi. 

25-40. 25-32. I . . . may. What has been the poet's past experience ? 
Upon what has he relied ? 26. No sport . . . gust. His transgression has 
not been wanton or careless. 33-36. Through . . . thought. An expres- 
sion of the sober earnestness of his determination. 37. unchartered free- 
dom : cf. 1. 27, What other lines besides 37 may be regarded as touchstones ? 
Quote and justify your choice. 39-40. My hopes . . . same. What is 
meant by these lines ? 

41-56. 44. smile . . . face. In what sense has Duty a smile upon her 
face ? 45-46. Flowers . . . treads. What possible facts in human experi- 
ence are here touched upon ? 47-48. Thou . . . strong. Duty is Law, and 
Law controls the universe. 49. humbler functions, humbler than what } 
50-56. I myself commend . . . live. Contrast in detail with 11. 27-31. 
55-56. The confidence . . . live. How can Duty do these things ? 56. 
Bondman, i.e. let me live as thy Bondman. In what sense ? 



524 NOTES TO WORDSWORTH 



See the previous discussions of the form and history of the sonnet in the 
Introduction, p. Ixxxv, the account of sixteenth-century poetry, and the notes 
on the sonnet under Spenser and Milton. 

The first place among English sonnet writers may safely be assigned to 
Wordsworth. Not only has he surpassed others in the number which he has 
written, — between four and five hundred, — but he has also produced some 
which have rarely, if ever, been excelled. During the eighteenth century the 
sonnet had been almost altogether neglected, and it is largely to Wordsworth 
that its rehabilitation is due. 

London, 1802 

This sonnet on Milton was named (as was often the practice of Words- 
worth) from the place and time of its composition. In dignity of expression 
it is not unlike some of the best sonnets of Milton himself. The octave ex- 
presses a dissatisfaction with the condition of England, to which Wordsworth 
frequently gave utterance. The sestet evidences a fine appreciation of the 
solitary grandeur and the steadfast devotion to duty which constitute the 
personality of Milton. 

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1S02 

In this sonnet the poet treats of the great city almost as if it were an 
object of nature. The octave is made up of a simple objective description of 
the scene before him. The sestet is more subjective, giving the mood arising 
from this survey. Where is the theme of this sonnet first announced or 
suggested ? What attributes of the scene before the poet most strongly 
move him ? What emotions are raised and developed in the sonnet, and 
where is the climax of emotion ? What is the ' heart ' in 1. 14 ? 

" It is a Beauteous evening, Calm and Free " 

Wordsworth says of this sonnet that it was " composed upon the beach 
near Calais in the autumn of 1802." It is certainly in some respects one of the 
finest he ever wrote. The octave is descriptive ; the sestet brings in the 
human element. Point out the biblical allusions and show their application. 
Compare 1. 14 with 1. 67 of the Ode on the Intimations of Immortality, and 
from this starting-point compare the sestet with the similar thought developed 
in the ode. 

" The World is Too Much 2vith Us " 

This sonnet, written in 1806, is in many respects an echo of Tintern 
Abbey, in which we find its heart-sick weariness with the 'fretful stir un- 
profitable, and the fever of the world.' It will be noted that there is here a 



THE ANCIENT MARINER 525 

less distinct separation between octave and sestet than in the other sonnets. 
In the octave the poet shows how we have wantonly put ourselves out of 
harmony with nature. In the sestet he suggests a superior excellence in the 
simple creed of the Greeks. What are the meaning and the syntax of 'sordid 
boon ' (4) ? Explain the figures of speech in this sonnet, and classify them. 
For ' Proteus' and 'Triton ' (13 and 14), see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 86. Whether 
Wordsworth really means what he says in 11. 9-10 is worth consideration. 

" Scorn not the Sonnet " 

This was one of the last of Wordsworth's sonnets, being written in 1827, 
The poet prefaced it by a statement that it had been " composed, almost 
extempore, in a short walk on the western side of Rydal Lake." It is perhaps 
the most notable of the numerous sonnets which have been written upon the 
sonnet. It is worthy of note that the poets here mentioned were among the 
first of the sonnet writers in their respective tongues. Petrarch and Dante were 
the great Italian poets of the fourteenth century. Tasso was also an Italian, 
two centuries later. Camoens was a Portuguese poet, contemporary with 
Tasso. The sonnet in the hands of Shakespeare, Spenser, and Milton has 
already been discussed in earlier pages of this book. 

COLERIDGE 

THE ANXIENT MARINER 

Both Coleridge and Wordsworth have left circumstantial accounts of 
the origin of The Ancient Mariner and the general plan of the lyrical 
Ballads, in which the poem first appeared. The importance of Coleridge's 
poem and of the Lyrical Ballads as a whole justifies a somewhat extended 
quotation from each poet. 

In his Biographia Literaria Coleridge says : " During the first year that 
Mr. Wordsworth and I were neighbors, our conversations turned frequently 
on the two cardinal points of poetry : the power of exciting the sympathy 
of the reader by a faithful adherence to the truth of nature, and the power of 
giving the interest of novelty by the modifying colors of imagination. The 
sudden charm which accidents of light and shade, which moonlight or sun- 
set diffused over a known and familiar landscape, appeared to represent, the 
practicability of combining both. These are the poetry of nature. The 
thought suggested itself (to which of us I do not recollect) that a series of 
poems might be composed of two sorts. In the one, the incidents and agents 
were to be in part, at least, supernatural; and the excellence aimed at was to 
consist in the interesting of the affections by the dramatic truth of such emo- 
tions as would naturally accompany such situations, supposing them real. 
And real in this sense they have been to every human being, who, from what- 
ever source of delusion, has at any time believed himself under supernatural 
agency. For the second class, subjects were to be chosen from ordinary life; 



526. NOTES TO COLERIDGE 

the characters and incidents were to be such as will be found in every village 
and its vicinity where there is a meditative and feeling mind to seek after 
them, or to notice them when they present themselves. 

" In this idea originated the plan of the Lyrical Ballads, in which it was 
agreed that my endeavors should be directed to persons and characters super- 
natural, or at least romantic; yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a 
human interest and a semblance of truth, sufficient to procure for these 
shadows of imagination that willing suspension of disbelief, for the moment, 
which constitutes poetic faith. . . . With this view I wrote The Ancient 
Marine}-" 

Of The Ancient Mariner Wordsworth has said: "In reference to this 
poem I will here mention one of the most noticeable facts in my own poetic 
history and that of Mr. Coleridge. In the autumn of 1797, he, my sister, and 
myself started from Alfoxden pretty late in the afternoon, with a view to visit 
Lintoun and the Valley of Stones near to it ; and as our united funds were 
very small, we agreed to defray the expense of the tour by writing a poem to 
be sent to the New Monthly Magazine set up by Phillips the bookseller, and 
edited by Dr. Aiken. Accordingly, we set off, and proceeded along the 
Quantock Hills toward Watchet, and in the course of this walk was planned 
the poem of The Ancient Mariner, founded on a dream, as Mr. Coleridge 
said, of his friend Mr. Cruikshank. Much the greatest part of the story was 
Mr. Coleridge's invention ; but certain parts I suggested ; for example, some 
crime was to be committed which should bring upon the Old Navigator, as 
Coleridge afterwards delighted to call him, the spectral persecution, as a con- 
sequence of that crime and his own wanderings. I had been reading in 
Shelvocke's Voyages a day or two before, that, while doubling Cape Horn, 
they frequently saw Albatrosses in that latitude, the largest sort of sea-fowl, 
some extending their wings twelve or thirteen feet. 'Suppose,' said I, 'you 
represent him as having killed one of these birds on entering the South Sea, 
and that the tutelary spirits of these regions take upon them to avenge the 
crime.' The incident was thought tit for the purpose, and adopted accord- 
ingly. I also suggested the navigation of the ship by the dead men, but do 
not recollect that I had anything more to do with the scheme of the poem. 
The gloss with which it was subsequently accompanied was not thought of by 
either of us at the time, at least not a hint of it was given to me, and I have 
no doubt it was a gratuitous afterthought. We began the composition to- 
gether, on that to me memorable evening; I furnished two or three lines at 
the beginning of the poem, in particular : — 

"'And listens like a three years' child: 
The Mariner hath his will.' 

These trifling contributions, all but one, which Mr. C. has with unnecessary 
scrupulosity recorded, slipped out of his mind, as well they might. As we 
endeavored to proceed conjointly (I speak of the same evening), our respec- 
tive manners proved so widely different that it would have been quite pre- 



THE ANCIENT MARINER 527 

sumptuous in me to do anything but separate from an undertaking upon 
which I could only have been a clog." 

The poem, thus begun in the middle of November, 1797, was not finished 
until the end of the following March. It seems to have outgrown the pro- 
portions it was originally designed to possess ; and, instead of appearing in 
the magazine for which it was at first intended, it formed an important part 
of the Lyrical Ballads — published in the summer of 1798. It proved a 
very great puzzle to contemjjorary critics, and the reviews of it were unsparing 
of condemnation. Wordsworth ascribed the failure of the Lyrical Ballads to 
the insertion of the unlucky poem, and Coleridge even proposed to withdraw 
it from publication. All of which merely goes to prove that a poet may be 
without honor among his own people. 

"The versification," as Wordsworth has remarked, "is harmonious and ex- 
quisitely varied, exhibiting the utmost powers of the ballad metre and every 
variety of which it is capable" (see Introduction, pp. Iv, Ixxxi, xcii). To 
appreciate the harmony and melody of the verse, we need only compare it 
with any of the old English ballads of similar, but less artistic, poetic form. 
The normal stanza has four verses of alternating iambic tetrameter and iambic 
trimeter. The trimeter lines are rhymed ; the tetrameter lines usually not 
so, though the absence of rhyme in these lines is generally compensated for by 
an internal rhyme in one or both. In some instances the normal stanza is 
enlarged to a stanza of five, six, or even nine lines — and always with a dis- 
tinct heightening of poetic effect. 

Part i. 1-20. 2. one of three : see 11. 588-590. 3-8. By . . . din. 
Observe that the guest has at first no idea of delaying. Trace and explain the 
several steps by which we see him finally pass entirely into the mariner's power. 
II. loon, a good-for-nothing fellow. 12. Eftsoons, at once; an archaic word 
to lend color to the poem. Find similar archaic expressions. 15-16. and 
listens . . . will : see Wordsworth's account of the poem in introduction to 
these notes. 18. chuse : see note on 1. 12. 

21-40. Observe the two parts of this division. How does the back- 
ground of the wedding feast add to the aesthetic effect ? 22-24. drop . . . 
top, evidently dropping below the horizon, and, hence, first losing sight of 
the objects nearest sea-level. The hghthouse seems to be on the hill. Note 
the order in which he sees these objects on returning, 11. 464-467. 25. sun 
. . . left. In what direction were they going ? 37-40. The . . . Mariner. 
Observe that every line of this stanza is a repetition of a preceding line. 
This tendency to repetition is often seen in ballads. On the refrain, see 
Introduction, p. Ixxix ; on rhetorical figures like repetition, p. xlix. 

41-62. 45-50. With . . . fled. Show in detail the points of likeness 
in this comparison of the ship to one 'who pursued . . . still treads,' etc. 
51-54. And now . . . emerald. Where was the ship at this time ? Notice 
throughout these stanzas the beauty, simplicity, and strength of the poet's 
descriptions. Not a word too much or too little ; it is all a clear-cut, distinct 
picture. 55-62. And . . . swound. Describe this scene and show its 
probable effect on the sailors. 62. swound : see note on 1. 12. 



528 NOTES TO COLERIDGE 

63-82. 63. Albatross. What is the derivation of this word ? 67. eat, 
the obsolete participle. 71. And . . . behind. In what direction were they 
going now ? 76. vespers nine, i.e. for nine evenings. See derivation of 
' vespers.' Show how the action of the mariner is made more revolting by 
the greeting accorded to the albatross (65-66) and its fondness for the crew 
(73-74). Why, then, did he kill the bird? Does this offence merit the 
punishment which follows ? 

Part ii. 83-106. 83-86. The Sun . . . sea. Cf. 11. 25-28. 87-90. 
And . . . hollo. Cf. 11. 71-74, and see note on 11. 37-40. 98. uprist, an 
obsolete form: see note on 1. 12. 99-102. They . . . mist. Show how the 
sailors' approval of the ancient mariner's act really makes them participants 
in the crime. Were they in any respect even more culpable than the 
mariner ? 

107-130. A tropical calm. 109. to break. Does this infinitive express 
purpose or result? 111-112. hot, copper, bloody. Justify the use of these 
adjectives. 113. Right . . . stand. What does this show as to the loca- 
tion of this scene ? 115-119. Day . . . day; Water . . . water. Show the 
effect of these repetitions as picturing the mood of the mariner. 120. And, 
i.e. and yet, in spite of the water. 123-126. The . . . sea. What is the 
mariner's attitude toward nature in these lines ? Show in this and succeed- 
ing stanzas the evidence of approaching delirium. Discuss this distress in the 
light of Nemesis {CI. D. or CI. M., p. 72). 128. death-fires, mysterious 
lights, sometimes called corpse candles, supposed to be seen over dead bodies, 
or to foreshadow the death of him who sees them. What was probably the 
real cause of the phenomenon ? 129. witch's oils. Why does the mariner 
use this comparison ? 130. blue. Syntax ? 

131-142. 132. the Spirit: see the marginal gloss, and (/I 11. 402-405. 
133. fathom. Syntax? 139. well-a-day: see note on Eve of St. Agnes 
(hi). 141-142. Instead . . . hung. Consider whether this is to be taken 
literally or figuratively. Observe that the albatross is the sign of the mariner's 
sin ; while his religion taught that the cross was a symbol of deli7>erance from 
sin. What, then, would this action mean to him ? Note also that each " Part " 
of the poem except the last ends with an allusion to the albatross, or the 
crime, or the penance. What is the purpose of this device ? 

Part hi. Into what two divisions may this part be separated ? Does there 
seem to be an allegorical meaning in this and succeeding portions of the poem ? 
Study the poem in the light of the three following views ; show which seems 
most probable, or whether there is still a fourth interpretation: (i) that the 
poem is intended to be taken with childish or imaginative faith as you would 
take any story containing a supernatural element ; (2) that it is to be taken 
as an allegory, like Pilgritn''s Progress or the Faerie Queene ; (3) that it is to 
be taken literally, except that parts IIl-VI and some parts of II and VII 
are the ravings of a fever delirium on the part of the mariner. Which of 
these interpretations would make the poem most significant and valuable ? 

143-170. 143-146. weary: sec note on 1. 115-119. 152. I wist. An 



THE ANCIENT MARINER 529 

archaic imperfect of the verb wit. The expression is cognate with ywis or 
iwis (from A.-S. gewis). See Diet, and cf. Horatius (138). 155. water- 
sprite. Sprite is the older form of spirit. 162. With . . . baked: see note 
on 11. 37-40. 164. Gramercy (Fr. grand, great + merci, thanks), an 
expression of joy and thankfulness. grin. What gave the sailors this 
appearance? Cf. with the next two lines. 

171-202. 171-176. The . . . Sun. Describe this picture. 177-184. 
And . . . gossameres. Point out the uncanny in the picture, and show the 
effect on the mariner. 178. Heaven's Mother, the Virgin Mary. 184. 
gossameres, a very filmy kind of cobweb. Look up the derivation. 188. 
a Death. How account for the fact that it is the woman, more than the 
Death, that seems to fill the mariner with horror? igo-194. Her . . . cold. 
Describe the woman, and show the impression she produces. 193. Life-in- 
Death. Would Death-in-Life have been a more exact or a more imagina- 
tively suggestive term? 197. I've won. In a previous throw of the dice. 
Death has evidently won the other sailors. In this throw Life-in-Death 
wins the mariner. How does this correspond with their subsequent adven- 
tures? 199-200. The . . . dark. So always in the tropics. Notice the 
fine metaphor in Coleridge's marginal gloss on these lines. 201. whisper. 
Describe the effect of this onomatopoeia. On the qualities of sound in verse, 
see Introduction, pp. Ixix-lxxvi. The poem is a veritable garner of memory 
images, poetic figures, and rhetorical devices, and will well repay study from 
this point of view. 

203-223. 203. looked sideways up. What does this suggest? 204- 
205. Fear . . . sip. Explain the simile, showing the force of ' sip.' 207. 
white. Syntax? 209. clomb, archaic for climbed, eastern bar. Explain. 
210-211. The . . . tip. Show why this position of the star is impossible. 
How do you account for the fact that the mariner took note of all these 
details at this terrible moment? 215. cursed. Why? Was the curse just? 
223. Like . . . bow: see note on 11. 141-142. Explain fully why the mari- 
ner was fated to live while his comrades all died. An interesting discussion of 
this question may be found in George Macdonald's David Elginhrod, chap. v. 

Part iv. Designate the shifts of scenes that occur in this part. 

224-262. 226-227. And . . . sand. These lines were contributed by 
Wordsworth. Describe the picture. What does 1. 227 modify? 232-235. 
Alone . . . agony: see note on 1. 115-119. Show that this loneliness was 
spiritual as well as physical. 236-239. The ... I. Can you explain this 
mood, where death is beautiful and life terrible ? 245. or ever, before ever. 
gusht. In what respect does the choice of this word excel? 246. wicked 
whisper. What was this whisper and what did it say? Why could the 
mariner not pray? Observe that this is the climax of his hardness of heart, 
his rebelHon against Providence, his hatred of God's creatures. 253-262. The 
cold . . . not die. Discuss these stanzas as the cHmax of the mariner's 
penance and suffering. 255. Thelook: seel. 215. 262. could not die: see 
note on 1. 197. 



530 NOTES TO COLERIDGE 

263-291. Contrast as to pictures and mood these stanzas with those 
preceding. Read Coleridge's marginal gloss as a help in explaining the 
change which is coming over the spirit of the mariner. 263-266. The . . . 
beside. Indicate the beauties of versification and poetry in this stanza. 
Observe that the mariner is at last awakened to an interest outside of him- 
self and his own sufferings : cf. Prisoner of Chillon (251-258). 267-281. 
Her beams . . . fire. Note the images of color in these stanzas, and show 
how they contribute to the poetic impression. 267. bemocked . . . main. 
Explain. 268. spread. Syntax? 270-271. The . . . red: 9': with 11. 129- 
130, showing the difference in the effects produced upon the mariner, 
287. I blessed them unaware. This may be taken as the climax of the 
story. The mariner no longer rebels ; his heart has softened. The cruelty 
which prompted, the disregard of life which permitted, the killing of the 
albatross, are replaced by spontaneous love of the lowly creatures of the sea. 
288-291. The . . . sea: see note on 11. 141-142, regarding the significance 
of the release from the albatross. Why is the mariner now able to pray? 

Part v. What time elapses in this part? How is the action divided, and 
what shifts of scene are included? 

292-308. 292. Oh sleep ! Consult Introduction, p. Ixx, on the 
quality of the sounds in this passage. Cf. Coleridge's invocation to sleep with 
those of Shakespeare in Second Part of Henry IV, III, I ; Macbeth, II, 2; and 
Julius CcBsar, IV, 3 (last part). 294. Mary Queen: cf. 1. 178. 296. slid. 
Point out the force of this word. 297. silly. Some take this to mean 
blessed or happy (since now filled with water): see derivation of 'silly'; 
while some define it as foolish or useless (since they had so long been empty). 
Decide. 305. could not feel. Why this lightness? 

309-344. 309. roaring wind. What was there supernatural about the 
'wind'? 317. wan . . . stars. Why 'wan'? 325-326. The lightning 
. . . wide, now evidently " sheet lightning," rather than " chain lightning," 
as in 1. 314. 331. They . . . uprose: see Wordsworth's remarks at the 
beginning of notes to this poem. Discuss 'sere,' 1. 312; 'fire-flags sheen,' 
1. 314 ; 'had,'T. 333; 'lifeless tools,' 1. 339. 

345-382. 345. I fear thee. Why? 349. troop of spirits. Comment 
upon the significance of this spiritual aid. 358-372. Sometimes . . , tune. 
These stanzas, especially the last, may be considered among the most melo- 
dious in English poetry. The student should point out words which are espe- 
cially musical and lines that appear to be inevitably artistic. It is to lines 
like these that Swinburne refers when he says, "Of Coleridge's best verses I 
venture to affirm that the world has nothing like them, and can never have." 
358. a-dropping. Give meaning and syntax. 366. That makes . . . mute. 
Explain. 379. The spirit slid : see 11. 131-134. Is there any change in the 
spirit's attitude toward the mariner, and, if so, why? 382. the ship stood 
still. The ship has now reached the equator, beyond which point the spirit 
of the south has not the power to go. The gloss to this stanza seems to be 
inconsistent with the gloss to 11. 103-106, Does this inconsistency extend to 



THE ANCIENT MARINER 53 1 

the poem, and, if so, is there any way in which the contradiction can be 
reconciled? 

383-409. 386. a short uneasy motion. The Polar spirit, though 
unable to cross the ' line,' still endeavors to keep his hold upon the ship. 
The guardian saint (see 1. 286 and the gloss to 11. 345-349) seeks to set it 
free; hence this 'motion.' 394. I have not tO, i.e. am not able to. 395. 
living life. Show what this means, and how the voices of 1. 397 are supposed 
to be ' heard ' by the unconscious mariner. 399. By . . . cross, a common 
ballad oath. 404-405. He . . . bow. These lines well express the sin of 
cruelty and ingratitude for which the mariner is suffering. 406. softer VOice. 
The 'first voice' seems to be that of Justice, " Sin must be punished." The 
' second voice ' is that of Mercy, " Sin may be pardoned." With this idea cf. 
Portia's speech in RIerchant of Venice, IV, I, 177-195. 

Part vi. The forward movement in this part may be considered along the 
following lines: (l) the ship's progress and the shifting scenes ; (2) the change 
in the apparent physical condition of the mariner ; (3) the progress in expia- 
tion of his crime ; (4) the waning of the supernatural and the return to the 
natural. Exemplify. 

410-429. 414. Still . . . lord. Explain the figure and show its fitness 
as here used. 416. great bright eye. What gave the ocean this appear- 
ance ? 418. If . , . go. Supply the infinitive of which this line is the 
object. 419. guides. How ? 422. so fast : see marginal gloss. 

430-451. 433. The dead men stood together. This is evidently the 
last penance to be undergone on board the ship. Show why it was imposed, 
and compare its effect with that of 11. 255-262. 435. fitter. Modifies what? 
442. spell, which had held his gaze. 444. little saw. Why ? 446-451. 
Like . . . tread. Analyze the figure in detail. What in the mariner's expe- 
rience corresponds to ' road,' ' turned round,' ' fiend,' etc. ? 

452-483. 452. wind. Compare, in various respects, with the wind of 

I. 309. 457. Like . . . spring, thus bringing up images of home. Cf. 
'welcoming' (459). 458. It . . . fears. Explain. 463. On . . . blew. 
Significance of this*? 465-466. The . . . kirk : see 11. 22-24 ^"^ note. 
467. countree: see note on 1. 12. 470. . . . alway. What is implied 
by this prayer ? 475. shadow of the Moon. What does this mean ? 479. 
steady weathercock. Explain, showing force of the adjective. Name some 
other moonlight scenes of the poem. 482-483. Full . . . came. Describe. 
See marginal gloss. 

484-513. 489. by the holy rood, the Cross, an oath frequent in 
ballads : cf. 1. 399. 494. They stood as signals. Observe that here, as in 

II. 335-349, the angelic spirits appear in order to aid the mariner. 512. 
shrieve, an obsolete form of shrive, to absolve from guilt or sin; here, from 
the blood-guiltiness of the albatross's death. See note on 11. 141-142. 

Part vii. Designate the successive topics in this part. 
514-555. 517. marineres : see note on 1. 12. 525. those lights: cf. 
11.494-495. 526. That, subject of ' made.' 530. sere: f/ 1. 312. 533-534- 



532 NOTES TO BYRON 

Brown . . . along. Describe the picture. 537. That . . . young. What 
does the clause modify ? 549. The ship went down like lead. Thus the 
poet suddenly transports us " from the land of mystery to that of human 
reality," from the supernatural to the natural world. The mariner has been 
undergoing punishment for guilt; has been passing through a fearful experi- 
ence for his spiritual salvation. The ship has been the stage on which these 
scenes have been enacted, and when it has served its purpose it disappears 
from human sight. This disappearance not only hides the mystery of the 
dead, but breaks the only material link that binds the mariner to his dreadful 
past. 

556-581. 558-559. save . . . sound. Explain. 560-565. the Pilot 
. . . crazy go. The terrifying appearance of the mariner is li^re in evidence. 
Why is the Hermit less affected than the rest? "No man liveih to himself 
alone " — this seems to be the poet's thought. The mariner has done penance, 
but the consequences of his sin have altered his relation to his fellow-men. 
565. now. When? 581. And . . . free. Explain. 

582-625. 586. like night. Comment upon the simile. 588-590. That 
. . . teach: cf. 11. 2 and 18, and show on what basis the mariner selects his 
hearers. What does this suggest as to the Wedding-Guest ? 591. What loud 
uproar. What is the aesthetic value of this reference to the wedding ? 595- 
596. And hark . . . prayer. What is the significance of these hnes ? Cf. 
11.601-617. 598. Alone . . . sea: cf. 11. 232-235 and note. 603. To walk. 
Syntax? 612-617. He . . . all, the moral of the poem. Coleridge once said 
he feared he had obtruded it too openly on the reader. Do you agree ? 
618-625. The Mariner . . . morn. Describe the mood with which the poem 
ends. 620-621. Wedding-Guest turned. Why? 622. forlorn, an archaic 
passive participle, meaning bereft. 624. sadder. What does the word 
mean here ? What lesson has the Wedding-Guest learned ? 

Is the style of the poem classical or romantic ? Does it incline in treatment 
to the idealistic, realistic, or jesthetic ? (See Introduction, pp. ciii-cxi, for 
principles of judgment.) 

BYRON 

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 

The Prisoner of Chillon was written in Switzerland, June, 1816, shortly 
after Byron had left England for the last time. The poet, who, with Shelley, 
was sailing on Lake Geneva, had been deeply impressed with the castle of 
Chillon, its romantic history, its picturesque situation on the northern shore 
of the beautiful lake, its massive walls and gloomy dungeons. He had also 
heard, in a general way, of Bonnivard, a political prisoner, who had occupied 
a cell in the castle nearly three hundred years before. He wrote the poem 
during a two days' detention by storms, at a little village on the shore of the 
lake. 

In a prefatory note, Byron says, " When this poem was composed, I was 



THE PRISONER OE CHILLON 533 

not sufficiently aware of the history of Bonnivard, or I should have endeavored 
to dignify the subject by an attempt to celebrate his courage and his virtues." 
On the whole, we may be glad that he did not know more fully the story of 
the actual prisoner of Chillon, since in simplicity, vigor of treatment, im- 
pressiveness, and hold upon the sympathy of the reader, the poem, just as it 
is, leaves little to be desired. 

I. Indicate the topic of this and of each succeeding division in its turn. 
2-3. Nor . . . night. Observe the dimeter lines. Describe the versifica- 
tion of the poem. What other poems of this book have similar rhyme and 
metre? (See Introduction.) 6. vile repose. Meaning? 7. spoil. In 
what sense ? 10. bann'd, shut off or denied. Discriminate between ' bann'd ' 
and 'barr'd.' 14. For, on account of. tenets. See Diet. 17. were . . . 
are. Note the contrast. 26. this wreck. Meaning ? 

II. Indicate topic as before. 27. Gothic mould, Gothic form of archi- 
tecture. What are some of its characteristics as compared with Doric, 
Ionic, Corinthian, Roman, Byzantine? 29. massy, massive. 35. marsh's 
meteor lamp, the will o' the wisp. See note on L'Alleg. (104). 41. 
this new day. When will he be 'done' with it? 42. painful. Why? 
47. lay living. The poem is notable for its alliterations. Point them out 
as they occur, showing effect of each, i.e. fitness, beauty, or the opposite. 
What instances so far? 

III. Topic? 48. column stone. What is meant? 49. each alone. Mean- 
ing? 52. But, except. 57. pure elements of earth, such as light, sunshine, 
wholesome air, etc. 63. dreary. Show how the sound of this word suggests 
its meaning — a kind of onomatopceia. 

IV. 71. ought. What tense? 72. in his degree. Meaning? 78. such 
bird in such a nest. Kind and fitness of the figure? 80-81. When . . . 
free. Meaning? 82. polar day. What is the point of this comparison? 
Near the poles the day lasts the whole season. 84. sleepless summer . . . 
long light. Note the double alliteration in the same line. Cf. 1. 10. 85. 
offspring. Explain the figure. 86-91. And thus . . . below. What are 
the characteristics of this younger brother? 

V. Characterize the second brother. 95. had stood, would have stood. 
loi. forced it on, made my spirit keep up. 102. Those relics, the two 
brothers were all that were left, hence 'relics,' 105. gulf, an abyss in which 
he was overwhelmed. 

VI. Remember to indicate the topic of each division of the poem. 107. 
Lake Leman, from the Latin, Lacus Lemanus, as used in Csesar's Commen- 
taries, I, 8. 108. A thousand feet. Below the castle the lake has been 
fathomed and proved to be nearly one thousand feet deep. 112. enthralls, 
to enslave or hold captive; thus the wave (or lake) surrounds the battle- 
ments of the castle and holds it captive. 114. living grave. Explain. 
122. rock, rocked. These words are of entirely different derivation. 
Look them up. 

VII. 126. nearer. In what sense? 135. years. Syntax? 136. pent, 



534 NOTES TO BYRON 

penned or confined. 150-151. And . . . cave. Why especially pitiful? 
154. foolish thought. Why foolish? 160. earth. Syntax? 163. mur- 
der's fitting monument. How is the chain a fitting monument? 

VIII. 167. race. Meaning? 173. natural or inspired. What distinc- 
tion between these two words? 175. was wither'd. Explain why passive 
voice. 184. horrors . . . woe. Discriminate between these words. 189. 
those. Why plural, when there was but one ? 193. departing rainbow's 
ray. Show the fitness of the figure. 198. better days. When? 205-211. 
I . . . him. Compare the emotions of the prisoner with those which he felt 
when the other brother died. 212-213. I. Why is 'I' italicized. 214. 
dungeon-dew. Meaning? 226. ne'er be so. What is meant? 229. faith. 
This evidently means religion, which forbade suicide (a selfish death). But 
why is it called an * earthly ' hope? 

IX. Describe in detail the mental condition of the prisoner as shown here. 
This is often called the best division of the poem. Why? 233-236. First 
. . . stone. Discuss. 237. wist, knew. 243. vacancy absorbing space. 
What does the poet seem to mean? 245-246. no stars . . . crime. What 
does each pair of words add in describing his condition? Try to get a defi- 
nite idea of these lines and, indeed, of each line of the division, as they all 
demand close thought. 

X. Show what the bird did toward bringing the prisoner back to light 
and life. 257-258. And they . . . misery, i.e. he forgot, for the moment, 
his sad condition. 262. close slowly round me. What does this mean? 
269. a thousand things. Discuss. 274. not half so desolate, else it could 
not have sung so sweetly. 277. dungeon's brink, the verge, or window ledge 
of the dungeon. 283. in winged guise, in the form of a bird. 293-299. 
Lone . . . gay. What do you call these figures? Show their force and fit- 
ness, and the extreme beauty of the details of the second one. 297. a frown. 
Explain the figure. 

XI. XII. Topic of each, as always? 303. inured. Explain. 308. athwart. 
Meaning? 315. profaned, /.^. by stepping on their graves. 319. therefrom, 
from or by aid of the footing. 323. wider prison. Explain and note the 
pathos of the idea. 

XIII. 334. thousand years, a large definite number for an indefinite — 
a species of synecdoche. Cf. 1. 269, and see Introduction, p. xlvi, on poetic 
figures. 339. town, a Swiss village across the lake. 341. a little isle. Byron 
has elsewhere spoken of this island, with its 'three tall trees' — the only 
island he saw in his voyage around the lake. In what sense did it 'smile' 
at the prisoner? 356. new tears came in my eye. Describe this mood. 
364. opprest, by what? 

XIV. Give topic. 369. mote, the speck (of misery) in his eye that pre- 
vented his looking at things around him. 370. At last . . . free. Explain 
his lack of interest. 374. love despair. Describe such a condition of mind. 
382. sullen trade. Explain. 384. feel less than they. Meaning? 389. 
friends. Why ? Syntax of the word ? 390. communion, association. 
391. even I. Why does he use the won! 'even"? 



ODE TO THE WEST WIND 535 

SONNET ON CHILLON 

This sonnet was prefixed by Byron to his Prisoner of Chillon, although it 
was not written until afterward, when the poet had become better acquainted 
with the story of Bonnivard. Francois de Bonnivard (1496-1570), undoubtedly 
the most illustrious of all those who have occupied the dungeons of Chillon, 
had incurred the displeasure of the Duke of Savoy by taking the side of the 
people of Geneva against the aggressions of that ruler. About 1520 the 
patriot was forced into exile, and ten years later captured and imprisoned in 
Chillon, where he remained six years. Liberated in 1536, he was welcomed 
with distinguished honors into the city for whose sake he had suffered. The 
sonnet is a noble expression of Byron's passion for liberty. 

STANZAS FROM CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 

Although of Childe Harold the third Canto is probably the best on the 
whole, it undoubtedly contains no single group of stanzas which deserves to 
rank so high as these extracts from Canto IV. They were written, presumably 
at Venice, in 1817. The desolation of ruined Rome and the lessons that it 
taught appear to have powerfully impressed Byron ; so much so, that perhaps 
nowhere in his poems is he more sincerely arid nobly eloquent than here. 

These stanzas are inserted merely to serve as an illustration, and to give a 
slight taste, of the poet's greatest production. Accordingly we shall leave to 
the student the task, or privilege, of working out for himself the meaning of 
the lines. Attention may well be called, however, to the fine artistic sense 
which prompted Byron to make use of the Spenserian stanza for his poem. 
Perhaps nowhere else can the stanza be found written with equal strength and 
dignity. 

SHELLEY 

ODE TO THE WEST WIND 

Of his Ode to the West Wind, written in 1819, Shelley has leit the follow- 
ing account : " This poem was conceived and chiefly written in a wood that 
skirts the Arno near Florence, and on a day when that tempestuous wind, 
whose temperature is at once mild and animating, was collecting the vapors 
which pour down the autumnal rains. They began, as I foresaw, at sunset, 
with a violent tempest of hail and rain, attended by that magnificent thunder 
and lightning peculiar to the Cisalpine regions." Unlike most lyrics the lines 
of this poem are in unbroken iambic pentameter. (For the stanzaic structure, 
which is interesting and unique, see Lntroduction, p. Ixxx.) 

I. A careful study of the poetic figures should be made throughout the 
poem. 7. winged. Explain. 9. azure sister. Note that the poet is 
addressing the tempestuous west wind of autumn. In the spring there will 
come a gentler sister breeze, this time from the azure sky instead of the 
storm cloud. 9-10. blow Her clarion. Explain. 11. Driving . . . air. 
What does the poet mean ? 14. preserver: see 11. 6-7. 



536 NOTES TO SHELLEY 

II. 15-23. Thou . . . storm. Which of these two similes is the more apt, 
the more suggestive, the more poetical ? 18. Angels, in the radical sense of 
messengers. See derivation. 19. thine airy surge. Explain. 21. Mcenad, 
a frenzied worshipper of Bacchus. See CI. D. or CI. M., p. 76. 23. locks. 
Syntax ? 28. Black rain . . . will burst : see Shelley's account above. 

III. 31. coil, an obsolete word of Celtic origin, meaning noise, here 
pleasant murmuring. 32. pumice isle, an island formed of light volcanic 
lava, or pumice stone. Baiae's bay, a part of the bay of Naples. 33-34. And 
saw . . . intenser day. There was formerly a large and important city at 
Baiae, now mostly submerged. The palaces of this city can be seen in the 
clear waters of the bay — waters so clear that the azure of the bay is brighter 
than that of the sky; hence 'intenser day.' But why 'quivering' ? 40. sap- 
less foliage. Explain. 42. oh, hear. Observe that each of the three 
stanzas thus far has ended with these words. 

IV. 43-45. dead leaf, swift cloud, wave, in reference to the leaves 
(Stanza I), clouds (Stanza II), and waves (Stanza III). 48. as in my 
boyhood. A reference to the restless wanderings of Shelley's earlier life. 
54. I fall ... I bleed : see next two lines. 

V. 60. both. From me and the forest, if thou wilt make us both thy 
lyre. What does this mean ? 62. me. Can the case of the pronoun be 
justified ? 63. my dead thoughts. In spite of Shelley's passion for re- 
forming the world and breathing into it a spirit of larger liberty, he was at 
that time little known or read. 64. quicken a new birth: see 11. 4-12. 
69. prophecy, of a freedom for the earth, still slumbering in political and 
social servitude. 

TO A SKYLARK 

This poem was written near Leghorn, in Italy, in 1820. It is perhaps the 
most beautiful of Shelley's lyrics, and most typical of the qualities which 
especially distinguish him. It would be hard to imagine the spirit which ani- 
mates the song of a bird translated more exquisitely into words. Concern- 
ing this lyric Mrs. Shelley has written : " It was on a beautiful summer 
evening, while wandering near the lanes whose myrtle hedges were the 
bowers of the fireflies, that we heard the carolling of the skylark which in- 
spired one of the most beautiful of his poems." 

1-30. The clear music of the lark as heard by the poet. i. Spirit. 
In addressing the bird he appeals to the spirit of music which it embodies. 
6-10. Higher . . . singest. This stanza well illustrates the effect of the 
peculiar metre. The first four lines are quick trochaic trimeters, suggestive of 
the swift upward darting of the bird. The fifth line is iambic hexameter, 
slow and apparently correspondent to the long and graceful sweep of soaring 
movement. What is the rhyme system of the poem ? 8. Like a cloud of 
fire. Discuss the figure. 16-20. The pale . . . delight. Explain the 
comparison of ' lark ' to ' star.' 22. silver sphere. Explain. 26-30. All 
. . . overflowed- Note the comparison between the moonbeams and the 



THE CLOUD 537 

song of the lark. In this poem, as in the preceding ode, every figure will 
repay careful study. 

31-60. A description of the bird by a series of similitudes. 36-40. Like 
. . . not. Consider how the lark, like the poet, creates the taste which is to 
enjoy its song ? 55. heavy-winged thieves. The wings of the wind are 
heavy from the drowsy perfume of the rose. 

61-75. Sources and nature of the song. 61. Sprite, an early form of 
the word spirit. 66. Hymeneal, from Hymen, god of marriage. See CI. D. 
or CI. M., p. 70. 

76-105. Details of the lark's superiority to the poet. 81-95. Waking 
. . . near. Show the connection and trace the thought of these three 
stanzas. 90. Our . . . thought. A tine example of the balanced line, in- 
evitable in thought and expression, a touchstone. 96-99. Better . . . found. 
Shelley himself excelled in these two particulars, — the understanding of 
metrical effects, and the knowledge and appreciation of poetry (' treasures of 
books ') 

THE CLOUD 

This lyric also appeared in 1820, though it must have been composed two 
or three years before, if, as Mrs. Shelley suggests, it was written in England. 
In speaking of the ode To a Skylark and The Cloud, she says that in the 
opinion of many critics they " bear a purer poetical stamp than any of his pro- 
ductions. They were written as his mind prompted, — listening to the carol- 
ling of th^ bird, aloft in the azure sky of Italy, or marking the cloud as it sped 
across the heavens, while he floated in his boat on the Thames." The cloud 
itself is supposed to sing. 

The metre and rhyme of this poem are characterized by a lightness and 
airiness of effect especially well suited to the subject. The even-numbered 
lines are nearly all trimeter, and are rhymed in pairs. The odd-numbered lines 
are tetrameter, and have only internal rhyme. Though the number of lines 
in the stanza differs, the stanza is always regularly formed according to the 
principle shown above. The lightness of movement in the verse is due to the 
short lines, to the internal rhyme, to the large number of anapestic substitu- 
tions, and to the artistic sequences of vowel and consonant sounds. (See In- 
troduction, pp. liii, Ixvi, Ixix-lxxiv, Ixxvii.) 

1-12. 7. mother's breast. Who is this mother that dances about the 
sun ? Notice each figure of speech in the stanza. 

13-30. Discuss the figures. 18. Lightning. How is Lightning the pilot 
of the cloud ? 28. Spirit . . . remains, object of ' dream.' 30. Whilst 
. . . rains. Explain this line. 

31-44. Discuss figures. 31. sanguine, blood-red, the radical meaning 
of the word. Derivation ? 33. sailing rack, thin, broken clouds, sailing or 
floating through the air. 35-38. As . . . wings. Show the points of like- 
ness in this comparison. 41. crimson pall. Describe the picture. 

45-58. 53. whirl and flee. What gives the stars this appearance ? 55. 



538 NOTES TO KEATS 

wind-built. Explain the adjective. 56-58. Till . . . these. Describe how 
the waters become like strips of the sky. 

59-72. 59-60. I bind — pearl. Explain 'burning zone' and 'girdle 
of pearl.' 61-62. The . . . unfurl. Discuss these hnes. 66. be, here an 
indicative. 69. powers . . . chair. Meaning ? 71. The . . . wove. 
Comment upon the process. 

73-84. Discuss the figures. 73 ; 74. daughter ; nursling. How so ? 
81. cenotaph. Look up meaning and apply it to this picture. 82. caverns 
of rain. What is meant ? 



This lyric was written in 1821. Shelley here gives extraordinary evidence 
of his wizardry in the technique of verse. The metrical effects, the combina- 
tions of vowel sounds, the swing of the verse, and its peculiar cadences — all 
contribute to make the stanzas well-nigh perfect. 

1-7. Swiftly . . . flight. What is the metrical and stanzaic system of 
the poem ? i. western wave. In what direction is Night represented as 
moving, and why ? 13. opiate wand, thus producing sleep. 20. unloved 
guest. Why ? unloved by whom ? 22. brother Death. In what sense is 
Death the brother of Night ? 24. filmy-eyed. Consider the epithet. Dis- 
cuss the use of personification in the poem. 

KEATS 

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 

St. Agnes was a Roman maiden who suffered martyrdom under the Emperor 
Diocletian about 300 a.d. The tradition runs that not long after her death 
she appeared to her parents in a vision in the midst of angels and accompanied 
by a white lamb. The lamb was henceforward considered sacred to her, and 
the custom accordingly arose that on St. Agnes's Day (January 21) the nuns 
of the church should bring two white lambs as an offering to her altar. Various 
superstitions became connected with her name, among others the belief that 
maidens who carefully observed certain ceremonies might, on St. Agnes's eve 
(January 20), obtain a sight of their future husbands. On this tradition 
Keats's poem is founded. As a narrative it is not without defects, but as a 
poem of sensuous impressions it has few equals. Sight, hearing, taste, smell, 
feeling, are brought under tribute and made to respond to the keen yet deli- 
cate sensibilities of the poet. Few poets have succeeded in creating an atmos- 
phere so dreamy, so enchanted, so full of beauty, so removed from the common 
world of our everyday experiences. In many respects The Eve of St. Agnes 
takes us back to the fairyland of Spenser. On the metrical structure of its 
stanzas, see Introduction, p. Ixxxiii, and notes to stanzas from Faerie Queene. 
The poem was first printed in the volume of 1820, though it had been written 
the early part of the preceding year. 



THE EVE OE ST. AGNES 539 

I-III. Rehearse the various ways by which the cold is suggested in these 
lines. 2. for, in spite of. 5. Beadsman, a retainer of the house whose busi- 
ness it was to utter prayers for his benefactors. The original but now obsolete 
meaning of bead was a prayer, told : see note to L'Alieg. (67). 6-9. while 
. . . picture. In what particulars is this simile thoroughly "in keeping"? 
14-15. dead . . . rails. The images of the dead ancestors of the household 
are carved in an attitude of prayer. Their oratories, or prayer rooms, are the 
little railed-off spaces on each side of the chapel aisle. Their enforced im- 
prisonment, under conditions so unpleasant, suggests 'purgatorial.' 21. 
Flatter'd. Leigh Hunt, in his Imagination and Eancy, devotes a page and a 
half to rather over-enthusiastic praise of the aptness of this verb. What are 
some of its points of excellence ? 22. But no. To what thought in the 
beadsman's mind is this an answer ? 

IV-VIII. What means are used by the poet to give the effect of space and 
magnificence in Stanzas IV and V ? Enumerate the details by which emphasis 
is given to the introduction of the principal character, Madeline. 31. snarl- 
ing. Aptness of word ? 34-36. The carved . . . breasts. Describe the 
picture, especially noting 'eager-eyed.' 37. argent, bright or shining, as sil- 
ver. Why this color rather than golden ? 39-41. Numerous . . . romance. 
Show aptness in the comparison. 56. The music . . . pain: see Intro- 
nuCTloN, p. xliii, on this figure, and note especially the word 'yearning.' 58. 
train, of the ladies' skirts. 60. tiptoe, an adjective meaning eager yet minc- 
ing. 62. she saw not. How is the preoccupation of Madeline evidenced in 
Stanzas VII and VIII? 70. Hoodwink'd. Meaning and syntax? all 
amort, the Anglicized form of the French a la mo7-t, as if dead. 71. lambs 
unshorn. The lambs offered at the altar of St. Agnes. They were then 
shorn and the wool spun by the nuns. See introduction to notes. 

IX-XII. 74. across the moors. In what country and at what time may 
we imagine these events to have occurred ? 76. portal (Lat. porta'), a 
gate. 78. all saints. W^hat is gained artistically by placing these scenes 
in a Catholic environment ? Give illustrations. 84. Love's fev'rous citadel. 
Discuss the metaphor. 86. Hyena. Show force of this word here. 90. 
beldame, an old woman. Look up derivation and history of word. 100 ; 
103. dwarfish Hildebrand ; old Lord Maurice. Observe the vividness with 
which the poet " hits off " these characters. 105. Gossip. Note the history 
of this word: (i) a sponsor in baptism (A.-S. god + sib, a God alliance), 
hence a godmother ; (2) a familiar or customary acquaintance ; (3) an idle 
tattler ; (4) the tattle of a gossip. In what sense is the word used here ? 

XIII-XIX. III. well-a-day, a corruption of the interjection wel-a-way ; 
(A.-S. wa-la-wa), alas. 112. a little moonlight room. "The poet does 
not make his ' Httle moonlight room ' comfortable, observe. All is still 
wintry. There is to be no comfort in the poem but what is given by love. 
All else may be left to the cold walls." (Leigh Hunt.) 115. by the holy 
loom : see note on 1. 71. 127. Feebly she laugheth. Why does she laugh ? 
Describe the picture in detail. Discuss the figure which follows. 129. urchin. 



540 NOTES TO KEATS 

Look up derivation and trace history of word. 133. brook. This word is 
used inaccurately here. What does the poet evidently intend to say ? 156. 
passing bell, a tolling of a bell to signify that a soul has passed or is passing 
from the body (formerly to invoke prayers for the dying). 171. Since . . . 
debt. Forman, the editor of Keats, explains this line by interpreting Mer- 
lin's monstrous debt as " his monstrous existence, which he owed to a demon," 
and repaid when he died or disappeared through means of a charm which he 
had revealed to Vivien, and which she used on him. These are legendary 
characters of the time of King Arthur, The night on which the magician 
was thus spellbound by his wily sweetheart was attended by a fearful storm. 
Does ' such a night,' etc. (170), refer to this storm or to the spirit of enchant- 
ment in the air ? 

XX-XXVI. What are the characteristic qualities of the descriptions in 
Stanzas XXIV and XXV? Note what senses are appealed to. 173. cates, 
luxurious foods or delicacies. Look up derivation, and cf. cater and caterer; 
also 'catering' (177). 174. tambour frame. What is this ? 175. lute. Why 
introduced ? See 11. 289-293. 193. mission'd, in its radical sense of sent 
(Lat. niissuiii). unaware, unexpectedly. 198. fray'd, territied. The situa- 
tion in this stanza is interesting ; the trembling Angela startled by the trem- 
bling Madeline, etc. In this way fill out the picture. 200. Its . . . died. 
What kind of figure ? " The smoke of the \\ax taper seems almost as ethereal 
and fair as the moonlight, and both suit each other and the heroine."' (Leigh 
Hunt.) 203. No utter'd syllable. Why? 207. heart-stifled. How does 
this apply to Madeline? 208-216. A casement . . . kings. Leigh Hunt 
speaks of this stanza as "a burst of richness, noiseless, colored, suddenly 
enriching the moonlight, as if a door of heaven were opened." Note here as 
in Stanzas IV and XXV-XXXI the vividness of the derived or memory images 
and see Introduction, p. xlii. Try to gain a definite picture of this ' triple- 
arched ' window. Where was the carving ? Of what size and shape were the 
panes ? What were the ' emblazonings ' and the ' twilight saints ' ? Where 
was the ' shielded scutcheon,' and in what sense did it ' blush ' with blood of 
queens and kings ? 218. gules, used poetically for a red color. 218-222. 
gules, Rose-bloom, soft amethyst ; glory. On this passage Sidney Colvin 
remarks : " OV)servation, I believe, shows that moonlight has not the power 
to transmit the hues of painted glass, as Keats in this celebrated passage 
represents it. Let us be grateful for the error, if error it is, which has led 
him to heighten by these saintly splendors of color the sentiment of a scene 
wherein a voluptuous glow is so exciuisitely attempered with chivalrous chastity 
and awe." 221. Amethyst. Look up the derivation of the word, and the 
meaning as applied to heraldry. 228. warmed jewels. Here we have a 
good instance of the poet's perfection of taste. Madeline is to be the 
central figure. Accordingly, Keats resists the temptation to enlarge upon 
the brilliancy of the gems, but contents himself with an epithet "breathing 
the very life of the wearer." 234. dares not look behind : see 1. 53. 

XXVJI-XXXIII. 237. poppied warmth. Explain the epithet and figure. 



THE EVE OF ST. AGXES 54 1 

241. Clasp'd . . . pray. A 'missal' is a mass-book or prayer-book, swart 
Paynims are dark or swarthy pagans. Is the missal ' clasped ' because it is 
never used in pagan lands, or to shield its contents ? 242. Blinded. What 
does this figure mean ? 244. SO. Force of this adverb? 250. Noiseless 
. . . wilderness. Discuss the aptness of the comparison. 251. hush'd 
carpet. What kind of figure ? This is certainly an anachronism. Floors 
in mediaeval times were strewn with rushes. Cf. Sir Laiinfal (103). For 
' carpet ' used in its older and proper sense, see 1. 285. 253. faded moon. 
Discuss the epithet. Enumerate the elements of color and of sound in this 
stanza. 257. Morphean amulet, charm to insure sleep, lest the music 
awaken Madeline. 260. Affray, same as fray (198). 262. azure-lidded 
sleep. Discuss the epithet. 264-275. While . . . light. These lines were 
evidently introduced because Keats could not resist this chance of appeal to 
the sense of taste, thus adding to the richness and Oriental coloring of his 
picture. For the apt sequence of consonants, see Introuuction, p. Ixxii. 
Does this Feast of St. Agnes add to the poem ? 266. soother, more sweet 
or delightful. 267. tinct. (C/. tint.) These syrups were evidently given a 
richer appearance by being stained with cinnamon. 268. argosy. Deriva- 
tion ? Cf. Merchant of Venice, I, i, 9. 269. Fez, a province in northwestern 
Africa. 270. silken Samarcand. A city in Russian Turkestan, Central 
Asia. Why ' silken ' ? cedar'd Lebanon. A province of Turkey in Syria, 
southwestern Asia. Why ' cedar'd ' ? 271. delicates. Same as ' cates' (173). 
277. eremite, an older and more correct form of the word hermit. 279. 
soul doth ache : r/I ' half-anguished,' 1. 255. 285. carpet, table-cover — the 
original meaning of carpet. As here used the word is not an anachronism. 
288. woofed, woven. 289. hollow, resounding. 291. ancient ditty: see 
note on La Belle Dame, etc. This French poem was written early in the 
fifteenth century, by Alain Chartier. 292. Provence, an old province in 
southeastern France. 296. affrayed : see 1. 260, and cf. the modern form, 
afraid. 

XXXIV-XXXIX. Observe in this passage how cleverly the poet manages 
the difficult situation of the awakening of Madeline. 317. voluptuous, in its 
radical sense of causing delight, caressingly pleasing to the ear. 322-324. 
meantime . . . window-panes. Why does the poet make the weather 
change from chill moonlight to gusty storm? 325. flaw, a sudden burst or 
gust of wind of short duration. Purpose of the descriptive lines 325 and 327 ? 
336. Thy . . . dyed. What does this line mean? Is it hopelessly extrava- 
gant, as some editors hold, or can you justify it? 344. haggard, wild or 
untamed, boon. Why? 349. Rhenish, Rhine wine. Cf. Merchant of 
Venice I, 2. mead, a fermented drink made of water and honey with malt, 
yeast, etc. 

XL-XLII. 353. sleeping dragons. What is meant? 360. carpets: 
see note on 1. 251. 361. They glide. Would it have been better to repre- 
sent further perils in leaving the house? Discuss. 365. wakeful bloodhound. 
Why introduced? 370. ay, ages long ago. Observe the art by which the 



542 NOTES TO KEATS 

poet throws a veil of mystery around his poem by assigning it to the remote 
past, and hy removing the only other characters that have entered into the 
story, — "the figures of the beadsman and the nurse, who live just long 
enough to share in the wonders of the night and to die quietly of old age when 
their parts are over "; as, indeed, was foretold in 11. 22-23 ^'^'i 'SS^'S^- The 
castle is left to the drunken baron and his warrior-guests, while the lovers are 
' fled away into the storm.' 

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 

The note of sadness, distinct in this poem, is partly explained when we 
consider the date of its production, and the events preceding it. Consump- 
tion was hereditary in the family of Keats, and during the latter months of 
1818 the poet had been witness to the struggles of his brother against that 
disease. The brother died in December, and doubtless about this time 
Keats began to foresee the same fate for himself, although the malady did not 
define itself until a year later. This ode, written in the early part of 1S19, 
when the writer's sorrow was at its height, furnishes an interesting companion 
picture to Shelley's Skylark. For another contrast between lark and night- 
ingale, see LAlleg. (41-44) and II Pens. (56-58). 

I. The stanzas of the poem are uniform. What is their metre and rhyme 
system? 4. Lethe. For this river of forget fulness, see CI. D. or CI. M., p. Si. 

6. too happy. The poet's heartache comes from the sensitive and exquisite 
sympathy he feels with the bird ; his sympathetic and sensuous pleasure has 
in its intensity become pain. 7-10. That . . . ease. Meaningof that ' and 
syntax of the clause? The correct answer will make clear the meaning. 

7. Dryad. Why does he call the bird a Dryad? See CI. D. or CI. M., p. 77. 
II-IV, 1. 34, 13. Flora, the goddess of flowers. See CI. D. or CI. M., 

pp. 73, 89. 14. Provencal, a district in southern France noted for its wines 
and for the merry out-of-door life of its people, its open-air or ' sunburnt ' 
mirth. See Eve of St. Agnes (292). 16. Hippocrene, a fountain of the 
Muses on Mt. Helicon. See CI. M., p. 470. Explain the metonymy. 23-24. 
The weariness . . . groan. This view of the world is one often expressed 
by poets. Cf. Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey (52-53) : — 

" the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world." 

26. youth, evidently thinking of his brother. 31-34. Away . . . retards. 
He here determines to forget the world, and to find the fairyland of the 
nightingale through the power of ' Poesy ' rather than of wine. 32. Bacchus : 
see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 76. pards. For these animals, sacred to Bacchus, 
see note on Comus (444). 

IV, 1. 35-V. A description of the land of Poesy, home of the nightingale. 
35. Already with thee. He suddenly imagines himself in that land. 39-40. 
Save . . . ways, as the swaying branches of the trees admit the fitful light. 
43. embalmed darkness, darkness permeated by the balmy odor of the 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 543 

season's fragrance. What kind of figure? Throughout these lines note the 
appeal to the sense of smell. 50. The . . . eves. Observe the onomatopoeia. 
VI-VIII. 51. Darkling, in the dark. I listen, coordinate with ' it seems 
rich.' for, inasmuch as (a subordinate conjunction). Its clause modifies 
' seems rich.' 62. No . . . down. A fine example of a line inevitable in 
thought and grace. It recalls somewhat the idea of 11. 23-24. The stanza is 
beyond praise — replete with poetic touchstones. 65. found a path. Ex- 
plain this beautiful metaphor. 67. alien corn, the wheat and barley which 
Ruth gleaned in the land of Boaz. See the book of Ruth ii. 3, 23. 68-70. 
The same . . . forlorn. In these lines the poet has penetrated to the heart of 
his fairyland. The chance word 'forlorn' awakens him into the real world. 
The last lines are unsurpassable in suggestion and charm. 75-80. Adieu 
. . . sleep. In some respects these lines may be compared with the last 
stanza of The Lady of the Lake. 75. fades. Justify the figure. Observe the 
quiet close, and see note on Lye. (186-193). 

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 

The Grecian Urn and La Belle Dame Sans Merci have been called " the 
twin peaks " of Keats's verse. The subject of the ode was especially attractive 
to Keats, for no one had a deeper sympathy with the artistic spirit of Hellas 
than he. "I have loved," he says, "the principle of beauty in all things"; 
and he recognized in the Greeks the most perfect portrayers of the beautiful. 
He was a devoted student of their plastic art through the specimens preserved 
in the British Museum. And from a comparison of these sculptures with 
engravings of others, he doubtless derived the conception of his Grecian Urn; 
for it has not been discovered that any single work of art stood as model. 
This, like most of Keats's other odes, was written in 18 19. The metrical struc- 
ture of its stanzas may profitably be compared with that of the Ode to a Night- 
ingale. 

1-10. 1-3. bride of quietness, foster-child of silence and slow time. 
Sylvan historian. Comment upon the figures and show how each applies 
to the Grecian Urn. 5-10. What . . . ecstasy. Note the subtle indirect- 
ness of the description. 5. leaf-fring'd legend haunts. Notice the imagery 
of these words. 7. Tempe, a vale in Thessaly. 

11-30. These lines furnish an admirable contrast between the shortness 
and decay of life and the abiding beauty of art. The creator of the urn has 
arrested his characters at a single significant moment of their lives. They 
accordingly live for us in permanent beauty and imaginative appeal. 11 -12. 
those unheard Are sweeter. Explain. See Introduction, pp. Ixix-lxxvi, 
on tone-color and melody in verse, and illustrate from this stanza. 13. sen- 
sual, here means physical or bodily. 18. winning near, approaching. 25. 
more happy love, happier even than the boughs or the melodist. Its antici- 
pation is far more to be desired than the cloying realities of actual life (29- 
30). 28. passion. Object of ' above.' 



544 NOTES TO KEATS 

31-40. 31. sacrifice. The central figures of the urn appear to be en- 
gaged in a sacrificial procession. 38. little town, whose inhabitants have 
been caught by the hand of the artist and placed upon this urn. 

41-50. 44-45. tease . . . eternity. The urn Hke eternity exhausts 
our powers of thought. 46-50. When . . . know. Again the permanence 
of art is emphasized — art that shall teach to future generations what was to 
Keats a cardinal doctrine, that Beauty is only another name for Truth, and 
that of all things she alone is imperishable. What lines of this ode are worthy 
to be accepted as poetic touchstones, and why? (See Introduction, p. cvi.) 

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci was written probably during the early part of 
1819. The title, which is taken from an old French poem, seems early to 
have caught Keats's fancy, as is indicated by the use made of it in the Eve of 
Si. Agties, 1. 292. Keats's mystical ballad, however, is entirely his own inven- 
tion, and is justly considered to be one of our best poetic revivals of mediaeval 
romanticism. Sidney Colvin, in his Life of Keats, says, "The union of infinite 
tenderness with a weird intensity, the conciseness and purity of the poetic 
form, the wild yet simple magic of the cadences, the perfect, inevitable union 
of sound and sense, make of La Belle Dame Sans Merci the masterpiece not 
only among the shorter poems of Keats, but even (if any single masterpiece 
must be chosen) among them all." As regards the poetic symbolism of the 
verses, Colvin continues: "Keats's ballad can hardly be said to tell a story; 
but rather sets before us, with imagery drawn from the medieval world of en- 
chantment and knight-errantry, a type of the wasting power of love, when 
either adverse fate or deluded choice makes of love not a blessing but a bane. 
Every reader must feel how truly the imagery expresses the passion : how 
powerfully, through these fascinating old-world symbols, the universal heart 
of man is made to speak." 



Though as a writer of sonnets Keats cannot compare with Milton in quality, 
or with Wordsworth in either quantity or quality, he probably ought to be 
ranked above most other writers of this form of verse, such as Mrs. Browning, 
Arnold, or Rossetti. His sonnets are mostly of the strict Italian type, de- 
scribed in the Introduction, p. Ixxxvi. 

On first looking into Chapman'' s Homer 

As we have noted, Keats, though handicapped by lack of knowledge of 
the Greek language, had an intellectual and emotional sympathy with the 
spirit of Greek art and literature. On coming to London the young poet was 
accustomed to spend his evenings reading with his friend Cowden Clarke. 
One of the books they thus attacked was a borrowed copy of Chapman's 
Homer, which they read far into the night. On coming down to breakfast 



HORATIUS 545 

next morning, Clarke found awaiting him this sonnet, which Keats had writ- 
ten since leaving him a few hours before. This was sometime during the 
summer of 1815, when Keats was only twenty years of age, and had as yet 
done nothing to show his power as a poet. Yet the sonnet is not only his 
best, but is one of the best of all English sonnets. 

What are the 'realms of gold,' the western 'states,' 'kingdoms,' and 
'islands' of 11. 1-4? Why 'fealty to Apollo'? Why ' deep-brow'd ' (6)? 
'Chapman' (8), poet and dramatist, was a contemporary of Shakespeare. 
The tribute which Keats pays him in this sonnet is well deserved, for his 
translations rank among the best in the English language. ' Cortez ' (il). It 
was Balboa and not Cortez who discovered the Pacific; but as Mr. Colvin 
says, " What does it matter? " 'Darien' (14) refers to the Isthmus of Panama. 

On the Grasshopper and Cricket 

This sonnet was written. December 30, 181 6. Keats, Leigh Hunt, and 
Cowden Clarke were together one evening, when Hunt proposed that each 
of them should then and there write a sonnet upon some subject to be agreed 
upon. The topic chosen for their experiment was that of the grasshopper and 
the cricket. No better illustration can be found of the manner in which the 
true artist may invest the commonest things in nature with interest and poetic 
charm. Keats has here shown us that the beauty of a poem need not depend 
upon aloofness or splendor of subject. This was a lesson that Wordsworth 
constantly aimed to teach. 

MACAULAY 

HORATIUS 

Horatius is the first of Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome, a collection of 
four stirring ballads, published in 1842. In a preface to the Lays the poet 
states his grounds for believing that the early Romans once possessed a con- 
siderable volume of ballad-poetry, which, after being transformed into history, 
had been allowed to perish. As to Horatius, he says: "There can be little 
doubt that among those parts of early Roman history which had a poetic ori- 
gin was the legend of Horatius Codes. . . . The following ballad is supposed 
to have been made about a hundred and twenty years after the war which it 
celebrates, and just before the taking of Rome by the Gauls. The imaginary 
Roman author seems to have been an honest citizen, proud of the military 
glory of his country, sick of the disputes of factions, and much given to pining 
after good old times which had really never existed." 

As is shown by the heading of the poem, Macaulay supposes his " honest 
citizen " to have made this ballad about three hundred and sixty years after 
the founding of Rome, or 393 B.C. It need not detract from our enjoyment 
of the story to learn that there is little or no historic foundation for the legend 
of Horatius. As a matter of fact, according to the Roman historian, Tacitus, 



546 NOTES TO MACAULAY 

Porsena's expedition was entirely successful, and Rome passed for a time under 
the Etruscan yoke. The tale of Horatius and his two companions was no 
doubt fabricated to increase the patriotic ardor of the Romans, and to help 
them forget the chagrin of defeat. But the historical accuracy of the story 
is a matter of only secondary importance. As Professor Morley says in his 
introduction to the Lays, " The songs of the people were free to suppress a 
great defeat and put in its place a myth of a heroic deed : some small fact 
serving as seed that shall grow and blossom out into a noble tale." 

I-II. Indicate the topic which these stanzas develop, i. Lars, a title 
of honor given by Romans to the Etruscan kings. Porsena, king of Clusium, 
who, when summoned to the aid of Tarquinius Superbus, completely con- 
quered Rome. See introduction to these notes. Clusium, the most impor- 
tant of the twelve cities of the Etruscan confederation, situated in the fertile 
valley of the river Clanis, a tributary of the Tiber. 2. Nine Gods, the nine 
great Etruscan gods, hurlers of the thunderbolt. 3. house of Tarquin. The 
family of Tarquinius Superbus, the seventh and last of the legendary kings of 
Rome, had been expelled from the city, in consequence of a brutal assault 
made upon Lucretia, a Roman matron, by Sextus, the second son of Tar- 
quin. Porsena evidently considered this expulsion of the Tarquins a ' wrong ' 
(1. 4), and led in this, the third attempt to restore them to power. 10. East 
. . . north : see note on 1. 23 below. 11. ride. Explain change of tense. 
What is the verse-form of this poem ? How does it differ from that of IVie 
Ancient Mariner ? (See notes on The Ancient Mariner and Introduc- 
tion, pp. Iv, xcii.) 

III-V. Give topics as before. 23. beech and pine : cf. among many 
other instances 11. 8, 12, and 20-22. This is one of the most marked charac- 
teristics of Macaulay's style, i.e. the preference for the definite and concrete 
'\n9Xit2i<S. q{ \.\\& general zxvA. abstract. 25. purple Apennine. Why 'purple ' ? 
26. Volaterrae, one of the twelve cities of the Etruscan league, 'lordly 'be- 
cause on the summit of a high and precipitous hill. 30. Populonia, the 
chief seacoast town of Etruria, situated on a high peninsula, near the island of 
' Ilva ' (Elba), and within sight of the large island of Sardinia. 34. FiscB, one 
of the twelve Etruscan cities situated on the bank of the river Arnus ( Arno) a few 
miles from its mouth, and on a good harbor, hence 11. 34-37. 36. Massilia. 
Marseilles, in France, triremes. Meaning and derivation ? 37. fair- 
haired slaves, evidently on their way from northern Gaul to the slave marts 
of Italy. 38. Clanis: see note on 1. i. 40. Cortona. Still another of the 
twelve cities of the league, on a lofty hill about nine miles north of Lake 
Trasimene. 

VI-VIII. Give topics. 42-49. Tall . . . mere. Why this detail re- 
garding the height of the oaks, the fatness of the stags, etc. ? Show relation 
of this stanza to the next. 43. Auser. A small river formerly tributary of 
the Arno. See note 1. 34. Its channel has become diverted. The present 
name of the river is the Serchio. Why ' dark ' ? 45. Ciminian, a wooded 
mountain range extending from the Tiber southwest to tlie sea. 46. Clitum- 



HORA rius 547 

nus, a small tributary of the Tiber draining a valley of rich pasture lands. 
49. Volsinian mere. The modern Lago di Bolsena, a lake of southern 
Etruria. Mere (lake) and marsh (swampy land such as frequently borders 
lakes) are derived from Lat. mare (sea). 52. green path. Why 'green' ? 
58. Arretium, the modern Arezzo, birthplace of Petrarch. Arretium, one 
of the most powerful of the twelve cities of the league, was situated in the 
upper valley of the Arno, at the foot of the Apennines. 60. Umbro, modern 
Ombrone, a large river of Etruria between the Arno and the Tiber. 62. Luna, 
the most northerly town of Etruria, famous for its wines. 59-64. old men, 
young boys, girls. Explain why. Note here and elsewhere the preponder- 
ance of derived, or remembered, images, and see Introduction, p. xlii. 

IX-X. Give topic. 66. prophets. Etruscan augurs whose duty it was to 
interpret the will of the gods. 71. turned the verses o'er, i.e. pondered over 
their ancient sacred books of prophecy. 72. Traced . . . right. The Etrus- 
cans, like some of the peoples of western Asia, wrote from the right to the 
left, linen, on which early books were sometimes written. 79. dome, palace 
(from Lat. donius, house). 80. Nurscia, an Etruscan goddess of Fortune. 
81. golden shields, the twelve sacred shields of Rome, dating from the time 
of Numa, the second legendary king. 

XI-XII. Give topic. 83. tale, number. See note on H Alleg. (67). 
86. Sutrium, a small town in southern Etruria, and about thirty miles north 
of Rome. 96. Tusculan Mamilius, Octavius Mamilius (son-in-law of Tar- 
quinius), a leader of Tusculum, a city fifteen miles southeast of Rome. Owing 
to his power and to his connection with the Tarquins, he was made leader of 
the Latin allies of Porsena. 

XIII-XV. Give topic. 98. yellow, an adjective commonly used in 
describing the Tiber. This color is probably due to the red volcanic earth 
which forms the river bed. 100. champaign. Look up meaning and deriva- 
tion, comparing with camp, campus, campaign, and champagne. 115. skins 
of wine, bags of goatskin in which wine was carried. 116. endless. Describe 
scene. 117. kine, an old plural of cow. 121. roaring gate. Why ' roar- 
ing ' ? Name all the subjects of ' choked.' 

XVI-XIX. Give topics. 122. rock Tarpeian, a steep rock, eighty feet 
high, overlooking the Roman Forum. See Tarpeia in CI. D., or among 
Names of Fiction in Diet. 124. blazing villages. Explain. 126. Fathers, 
the Senators, who were generally old men. See derivation of Senate. 
129. tidings : see next stanza. 133. Crustumerium, an ancient town of 
Latium. 134. Ostia. The seaport of Rome, fifteen miles distant at the 
mouth of the Tiber. 134; 136. Verbenna; Astur. Names of Etruscan chiefs, 
invented by Macaulay. 136. Janiculum, a hill across the Tiber, just outside 
Rome. 138. I wis, surely. An adverb sometimes written ywis. Cf. the 
German word getviss. 140. But, but that ; that did not. 142. Consul, one of 
the two chief magistrates who ruled Rome after the expulsion of the kings. 
144. gowns, togas, which would hinder rapid walking. 145. them. In 
form a personal pronoun, here used as a reflexive. 150- roundly, plainly 



548 NOTES TO MACAU LAY 

and to the point. 151. bridge, a very old wooden bridge across the Tiber 
from Rome to Janiculum. 

XX-XXV. Give topic. 163. red whirlwind. Note that the forces are 
coming so near that the color of the dust can be seen, and coming so fast 
that the 'storm' is now a 'whirlwind.' 165. rolling cloud. Explain, 
162-173. And . . . spears. Show how rhyme and metre of this long 
stanza help to picture a hurried approach. 177. twelve fair cities, of the 
Etruscan confederation. 178. Clusium : see note on 1. I. 180-181. Um- 
brian, Gaul, both often invaded by the Etruscans. 184. port and vest, 
demeanor and dress, crest, the plumes on his helmet. 185. Lucumo, a 
name given to an Etruscan noble. 186. Cilnius of Arretium, the head of 
a noble Etruscan family, 187. Astur, from Luna. See note on 1. 136. 
fourfold shield, a shield consisting of four layers of hide. 188. brand, 
a sword, so called from its flashing brightness, may wield : see 1, 355. 
189. Tolumnius, another Etruscan chief. 191. Verbenna : see note on 
I. 134. 197. Mamilius : seel. 96 and note. 199-200. Sextus . . . shame: 
see note on 1. 3. 

XXVI-XXX. Give topic. 217. Horatius, a member of the Lucretian 
tribe of the patricians. The other two patrician tribes were the Ramnian and 
the Titian. 220. soon or late. How do we ordinarily express this ? 229- 
230. holy maidens . . . flame. The Vestal virgins, six in number, chosen 
from the three patrician families. It was their duty to keep burning the 
' eternal flame ' on Vesta's altar. See CI. D. or CI. M., p. 70. 237. strait. 
Do not confuse with straight. Look up in Diet, 

XXXI-XXXIV. Give topic. 253. Rome's quarrel, foreign war waged 
by Rome. 261. lands . . . portioned, public lands acquired by conquest, 
and rented out by the state to private persons. Owing to their political influ- 
ence, the patricians, in early times, usually secured the larger share of the 
land, thus causing perpetual grievance to the plebeians. See introduction 
to these notes. 262. spoils . . . sold. This fixes the supposed time of the 
ballad, since, in 391 B.C., Camillus, a Roman commander at Veii, was thus 
accused of unfair distribution of spoils of battle. 267. Tribunes, first ap- 
pointed in 494 B.C., to protect the interests of the plebeians against patrician 
oppression. Their numbers were successively two, five, and ten. beard, to 
oppose defiantly; originally to grasp a man by the beard. 268. Fathers: see 
note on 1. 126. 269-270. As . . . cold. Show how internal dissension thus 
decreases national spirit. 274, harness, armor. 278. crow, crowbar. Why 
so called ? 

XXXV-XXXVL Give topic. Stanzas XXXV and XXI have been called 
the finest of the poem. In what respects may this opinion be maintained? 
Are these stanzas as poetical as V-VIII, LXVIII-LXX ? 288. measured 
tread. How does this suggest the vastness of the army ? 

XXXVH-XL. Give topic. 301. Tifernum, a town in Umbria on the 
Tiber. 304. Ilva's mines. The iron mines of ' llva ' (Elba) have always l)een 
celebrated. See note on 1. 30. 306. Vassal. Picus, the Umbrian, evidently 



HORATIUS 549 

held his land as tributary to Clusium. 309. Nequinum, an Umbrian town on 
the river Nar, several miles above its junction with the Tiber. It is situated 
on a high, steep hill. 319. Falerii, an important city of southern Etruria. 
321. Urgo, a small island between Etruria and Corsica. 322. rover, pirate. 
323. Volsinium, Volsinii, a city of Etruria, just north of the lake of the same 
name. See 1. 49 and note. 326. Cosa, a town in Etruria on the coast. 
328. Albinia, a river of Etruria, emptying into the sea near Cosa. 335. 
Ostia: see note on 1. 134. 337. Campania, a level province of central Italy, 
south of Latium. hinds, peasants. 

XLI-XLVII. Give topic. 340-343. But now . . . rose. Why? 344. 
Six spears' lengths. About what distance ? 355. which . . . wield. The 
use of 'he' instead of him after 'but' is not to be censured as a solecism 
here. ' But ' in this construction should be considered as a conjunction used 
adverbially in the sense of only, and not a preposition, — though some author- 
ities regard it as such. See Century Diet. 360. she-wolf's litter. The 
Romans are called the brood of the wolf, in reference to the fable of the 
suckling of Romulus and Remus by the she-wolf. See CI. D. or CI. M., p. 365. 
361. Stand at bay. Explain the figure. 384. Mount Alvernus, a mountain 
in Campania, near the source of the Tiber. 384-389. As falls . . . head. 
Explain the figure in detail. 

XLVIII-LII. Give topic. 412-416. like . . . blood. Explain the figure 
in detail. 421-424. And backward . . . reel. Describe the picture. 431. 
Sextus: see 11. 199-200, and 1. 3 and note. 

LIII-LVII. Give topic. 450. fall. Why not falls ? 461. like a dam. 
Explain the comparison. 467-475. like a horse ... to the sea. Explain 
the figure in detail. 477. constant, unmoved. 

LVIII-LXIV. Give topic. 488. Palatinus, one of the seven hills of 
Rome, on which, at this time, were the dwellings of most of the patricians. 
492. father Tiber: see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 357. 503. parted lips. What 
is indicated by this? 508. ranks of Tuscany, i.e. the Etrurians. 519. evil 
case, adverse circumstances. 526; 530. Curse on him; Heaven help him. 
Contrast the two men as seen here and in 11. 480, 482. 534-541. And now 
. . . crowd. Explain effect of the present tenses in this stanza. 

LXV-LXX. Give topic. 542. corn-land: see note on 1. 261. 546. 
molten image, probably of bronze. 550. Comitium, a place of public as- 
sembly in Rome, adjoining the Forum. 561. Volscian, an important people 
of Latium, though not of the Latin race. They were constantly at war with 
the early Romans. 562. Juno, the goddess of marriage and childbirth. See 
CI. D. or CI. 71/., pp. 55, 415. 572. Algidus, a wooded mountain of Latium, 
not far from Rome. 574. oldest cask, i.e. the best wine. 577. kid . . . 
spit. A spit is a pointed stick or skewer on which meat (' the kid ') is roasted. 
582. goodman, master of the house. 587. told. Name the dozen or more 
temporal clauses modifying ' told,' and describe the scenes of Roman home life 
which these clauses indicate. 

What characteristics of the ballad does this poem possess ? Compare it, in 



550 NOTES TO TENNYSON 

respect of verse and poetic style, with The Lady of the Lake. In what does 
its charm especially lie ? (Introduction, pp. xlii, xcii, xcvi.) 

TENNYSON 



Paris, son of Priam, was arbiter in the awarding of a golden apple inscribed 
" For the fairest," which Eris, or Discord, had thrown among the guests assem- 
bled at the nuptials of Peleus and Thetis. Juno, Minerva, and Venus each 
claimed the apple. For an account of this marriage feast and the fateful 
apple, see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 285. At this time Paris was living on Mt. Ida 
with the wife of his youth, the beautiful nymph (lEnone. The reward which 
Venus gave him for his judgment in her favor brought about his desertion of 
Qinone — a situation which Tennyson seized upon for this, the earliest of his 
classical idyls. The poem is written in blank verse, a metre in which Tenny- 
son afterward became especially proficient, undoubtedly excelling all poets 
since Milton. The poet worked out the plan for CEnone while on a tour of 
the Pyrenees with his friend Hallam, and much of the scenery in which the 
poem abounds is doubtless borrowed from those mountains. CEnone was 
first published in the volume of 1832,1 but was somewhat altered in later edi- 
tions. Sixty years later, the month of Tennyson's death witnessed the pub- 
lication of a companion poem. The Death of CEnone — inferior, however, in 
every way to this poem of his early genius. 

1-21. I. Ida. A thickly wooded mountain range south of Troy. 2. Ionian 
hills. Where are these ? 3-5. The . . . drawn. Describe the picture ; 
also the picture of the whole landscape. 10. Gargarus, a high mountain in 
the range. 13. Troas. The district of northwestern Asia Minor between Ida 
and 'Ilion's columned citadel,' or Troy. Why is Troy called 'the crown of 
Troas'? 15. CEnone: see CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 304-305. forlorn, in its 
radical sense of deserted or abandoned. 

22-62. 22. mother Ida. Why mother ? many-fountained, an epithet 
modelled after the Greek. Ida was formerly noted for its springs or fountains. 
39-40. as yonder walls Rose slowly : see the story of the building of the 
walls of Troy through the music of Apollo's lyre, in CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 136, 
189. 51. Simois, a river of Troas north of Mt. Ida. 

63-100. 65. Hesperian gold : see Hesperides and the garden of golden 
apples, as well as the apple of Discord. CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 55, 237, 285. 
67 full-flowing river of speech. Discuss the figure. 71. "For the most 
fair " : see introduction to these notes. 72. Oread. For the mountain nymphs, 
see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 77. 74. married brows. What does the poet seem 
to mean by the epithet ' married ' ? 79. Peleus, father of Achilles. See 
introduction to notes. 81. Iris. For the light-footed goddess of the rain- 

1 This volume, entitled simply Poems, is often spoken of as " the volume of 
1833," since that was the date on the title-page. The book made its appearance, 
however, in December, 1832. 



(EN ONE 5 5 I 

bow, see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 73. 83-84. Here, Pallas, Aphrodite. Juno 
(Hera), IMinerva, and Venus. 94. And . . . fire. Explain. 

101-131. 102. crested peacock, a bird dear to Juno, and her frequent 
companion. 105. voice of her: see Juno in CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 54-56. 
112. champaign: see note on Horatius (100). 126. shepherd. At the 
birth of Paris it was prophesied that he would bring ruin to his country. He 
was accordingly left to perish on Mt. Ida, but was found and adopted into the 
family of a shepherd of the mountain. 130. Above the thunder. Discuss this 
very expressive phrase. 

132-167. 135. Pallas : see Minerva in CI. D. or CI. M., p. 56, and show 
how her speech is characteristic of her. 137. O'erthwarted . . . spear. 
Minerva is frequently represented as carrying a spear transversely in her left 
hand. 142. Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control. Discriminate. 
144. not for power. Syntax of this phrase ? 151. Sequel of guerdon. 
A favorable decision brought about by bribes or rewards could not make me 
other than I am. 161-164. until . . . freedom. This is one of the most 
difficult passages in Tennyson. In trying to solve it, first determine the syntax 
of 'pure law'; then decide what the poet means by 'pure law' and by 'per- 
fect freedom '; finally hunt out the subject of ' commeasure ' and make sure 
what this verb means. 

168-202. 1 70-1 71. Idalian Aphrodite . . . Paphian wells. Aphro- 
dite, the Greek name for Venus, signifies the foam-born, from the myth that 
she arose from the foam of the sea. Look up Venus in CI. D. or CI. RL, pp. 
65-68. Idalia and Paphos, cities of Cyprus, were dear to Venus. 183. wife, 
Helen, then wife of Menelaus. See CI. D. or CI. M., p. 285. 195. pard : 
see note on Covins (444). 196. Eyed . . . star. Discuss the simile. 

203-240. 204. They . . . pines. Is this action related to the story of 
Troy ? To whom does ' they' refer ? Discuss the fine picture of this stanza, 
particularly noting 'plumed' (205), 'blue gorge' (206), 'moon-lit slits' 
(214), and 'trembling ' (215). 220. The Abominable, Eris or Discord, the 
goddess of strife. 231-234. . . . cloud. Note how the effect of these 
apostrophes is heightened by the parallel construction. 

241-264. 242. I will not die alone. In The Death of CEnone {%&t m- 
troduction to notes), CEnone is made to perish upon the funeral pile of her 
faithless husband. 245. Dead sounds at night. To what does this refer? 
p:xplain the simile in the following line. 247. My far-off doubtful purpose. 
Explain. 254. their . . . laughter. Whose ? 259. the wild Cassandra : 
see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 308. She was the daughter of Priam and had the 
gift of prophecy, but was fated to have all her predictions unbelieved. Al- 
though in the myth, CEnone had a like prophetic power, Tennyson wisely 
omits this characteristic as tending to detract from the beauty and simplicity 
of her nature. 261. armed men. Cassandra had prophesied the siege and 
downfall of Troy. 

Discuss the form of literature to which this poem belongs. Compare the 
blank verse, according to the principles mentioned in the In I'ROUUCTION, 
pp. Iviii-lxvi, ci, with that of Milton's Couiiis. 



552 NOTES TO TENNYSON 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT 

Long before Tennyson had formulated his plans for the Idylls of the King, 
he had become attracted toward the legends of Arthur and his court. The 
first important fruitage of this interest was seen in the volume of 1832, in the 
mystical lyric, The Lady of Shalott. In this poem Tennyson caught the spirit 
of the old romance, and expressed it with a poetic grace and perfection of 
form which he rarely, if ever, afterward surpassed. Though an ethical inter- 
pretation of the symbolism has often been suggested, it is perhaps best not to 
imperil the simple ballad interest by attempting any detailed analysis of the 
possible mystical (or spiritual) meaning. It should be noted that ' Shalott ' 
is only another form of ' Astolat,' that its lady is the prototype of Elaine, and 
that this little lyric was afterward elaborated into what has been styled " the 
most idyllic and most touching of the Idylls of the Kingy 

Part I. 5. Camelot, the mystical city where King Arthur held his court. 
See [Note II] Persons and Places of the Idylls of the King. 9. The island of 
Shalott. But in Lancelot and Elaine, Astolat is not an island. 19. margin, 
of the river. 30. cheerly, an archaic form of cheerily. The archaic and 
purely artistic words of the poem make it more poetical, if less human and 
touching, than the Elaine. 

Part II. 38. A magic web. Part II, with its magic web and mirror, 
may be intended to represent the world of images and shadows, the dream- 
life of childhood, beyond which for some mortals it is fatal to go. Part III, 
then, would be the awakening of passion, the escape into a world of realities 
— an escape that for the lady can mean only death. 40. stay, i.e. pause in 
her weaving. 52. churls, in its radical sense of rustics. 60. mirror blue. 
Why blue ? 

Part III. 77. Sir Lancelot, the chief of Arthur's knights. Note that in 
this poem, even more than in the Lancelot and Elaine, the knight is guiltless 
of the maiden's death. 84. Galaxy, the Milky Way with its innumerable 
and indistinguishable stars. Look up derivation of word. 87. baldric : 
see note on Prologue (ii6). 96-99. As . . . Shalott. Analyze the figure. 
What is the purpose of so stressing the brightness of Lancelot and his equip- 
ment? III. water-lily: see 1. 7. 114-115. Out . . . side. Significance 
of this? n6. The curse: see 1. 40. 

Part IV. In the LMncelot and Elaine the lady is not set afloat upon the 
river until after her death. 121. low sky raining. Observe harmony be- 
tween scene and action. 142. willowy hills. Discuss the epithet. 



The Odyssey (see CI. M, pp. 285-287, 313-337) brought the adventures of 
Ulysses, after the Trojan War, down to his return to Ithaca, and his retire- 
ment in undisturbed possession of wife and kingdom. More than two thou- 
sand years later Dante in his Inferno took up the myth, and described how 
tlie ancient hero, growing tired of repose, collected his followers together, 



TITHONUS 553 

incited them to action by a stirring speech, constructed a fleet, and set sail 
for the " happy isles " of the western ocean. Tennyson here presents the 
speech by which Ulysses may be supposed to have aroused his men. This 
poem was first published in the volume of 1842. 

1-32. 2. barren crags, Ithaca, the kingdom of Ulysses, a rocky island 
off the west coast of Greece. 3. aged wife. For Penelope, see CI. D. 
or CI. yJ/., pp. 2S5, 330-336. 10. Hyades. This constellation under certain 
conditions indicates stormy weather. For origin of the constellation, see 
CI. D. or CI. M., p. 174. 17. ringing plains. Why 'ringing'? 19-21. 
Yet . . . move. Explain the figure. 26. Little remains, i.e. of his own 
life (1. 25). Perhaps not more than three years (1. 29) are still left to him. 

33-70. 33. Telemachus: see CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 286, 331-335. 35. 
discerning to fulfil, understanding how to carry out. 40. decent, in its radi- 
cal meaning, from Lat. decern. 53. strove, in the Trojan War. See CI. M., 
pp. 291, 298, etc. 60-61. baths Of all the western stars. The stars were 
supposed to set in the western ocean. See CI. M., p. 75. 62. gulfs . . . 
down. This actually happened, according to Dante, for Ulysses never re- 
turned. 63. Happy Isles, or Isles of the Blessed : See CI. D. or CI. M., 
pp. 81-82. 64. Achilles: see CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 278-281, 284-304, 
especially pp. 303-304. 



Tithoniis was published in 1864. There is a finer balance here between 
the Greek and the Romantic than in almost any other of Tennyson's poems on 
classical themes. In its severity of outline and reticence of emotion it is 
distinctly Grecian. In its appeal to the heart it breathes the atmosphere of 
modern Romanticism. As some one has said, " You can weep for Tithonus, 
but you cannot imagine him shedding tears for himself." In form the poem 
furnishes an example of some of Tennyson's very best blank verse. For the 
story of Tithonus and Aurora the student should see a Classical Dictionary, 
or Classic Myths, pp. 196-198. (On Romantic, see Introduction, p. civ.) 

1-42. 3. Man . . . beneath. It would be hard to find a better ex- 
pression of the transitory nature of man's life. 7-10. Here . . . halls of 
morn. The scene of the poem is the palace of the Morning in the East. 
18. Hours, the attendants of the Dawn. See CI. D. or CI. 7)/., pp. 51, 55. 
25. the silver star, the morning star. 39. blind the stars. Explain the 
metaphor by which the eyes of Aurora ' blind the stars.' wild team. For 
the chariot and horses of Aurora, see CI. D. or CI. M., p. 192. Describe the 
picture of this ' wild team ' in 11. 40-42. 42. twilight, half-light, i.e. dawn. 

43-76. 62-63. Like . . . towers: cf. CEnone {^q-ip) . Tithonus was the 
son of Laomedon, and had consequently seen Apollo at work upon the walls 
of Troy. See CI. D. or CI. M., pp. 136, 189. 71. grassy barrows, graves. 
75. empty courts. Explain the epithet. Point out in the poem, and discuss, 
the several passages in which the description of Aurora figuratively portrays 
the coming of the dawn. Describe and name the various kinds of poetic 



554 NOTES TO BROWNING 

figure here used. Scan any paragraph, indicating the variety of ccvsurcr: and 
other pauses; also the pecuHarities of feet and of sound sequence. (See 
Introduction, pp. xliii, Iviii-lxvii, Ixix-lxxvi.) 

CROSSING THE BAR 

This Uttle poem was written over sixty years after the puhlication of Ten- 
nyson's first book of verse. It would be hard to imagine a more fitting climax 
to this long period of endeavor, or a more triumphant expression of the aged 
poet's simple faith, than is contained in these sixteen short lines. It has been 
called a poem above criticism, as beautiful an utterance as any in all the range 
of English verse — a poem in which, says Sir Alfred Lyall, "The noiseless in- 
draw of the ebb-tide from the land back into the ocean is a magnificent image 
of the soul's quiet parting from life on earth and its absorption into the vast- 
ness of infinity." 

Hallam Tennyson, in the memoirs of his father's life, has given the follow- 
ing account of the poem's composition : " Crossing the Bar was written in 
my father's eighty-first year, on a day in October when we came from Aid- 
worth to Farringford. Before reaching Farringford he had the Moaning of 
the Bar in his mind, and after dinner he showed me this poem written out. 
I said, 'That is the crown of your life's work.' He answered, ' It came in a 
moment.' He explained the ' Pilot ' as that Divine and Unseen who is always 
guiding us. A few days before my father's death he said to me, ' Mind you 
put Crossing the Bar at the end of my poems.' " 

BROWNING 

HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD 

Both this and Home Thoughts, from the Sea, which follows, first appeared 
in 1845 •'^ Dramatic Romances and Lyrics. Browning has shown no finer 
appreciation of the beauty and freshness of English springtide than in this 
little nature lyric. The words are uttered in a foreign land by one whose 
heart is yearning for the delights of the English spring. 

4. unaware, unexpectedly. 11-14. Hark . . . thrush. The picture 
seems to be that of the thrush perching on the twig of the pear tree, and 
bending it down so violently that a shower of petals and dewdrops is scattered 
on the grass beneath. This description of the thrush who wants to prove his 
ability to repeat his song is as famous as it is charming. 

HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA 

In this lyric we see a patriotic Englishman stirred by scenes which bring 
before his mind the glory of his country. Here is Gibraltar which, at the 
close of the eighteenth century, England successfully defended against the 
combined assaults of France and Spain. Here is Cape Trafalgar, where, in 
1805, the brave Nelson defeated the French fleet; and, dying in the battle, 



A/V LAST DUCHESS 555 

left as a heritage to his countrymen his famous message, "This day England 
expects every man to do his duty." 

The metrical form of these lines is trochaic octameter catalectic, like that 
in Tennyson's Locksley Hall. 1-4. Nobly . . . gray. Describe the scene. 
Professor Corson points out that it forms " a characteristic Turner picture." 
5-6. say, Whoso turns. Let him, whosoever turns as I, etc., — say. 7. Joye's 
planet. To what does the poet refer? 

EVELYN HOPE 

Professor Saintsbury, who is far from being a Browning enthusiast, says 
in his History of Nineteenth Century Literature : "It is as a lyric poet 
that Browning ranks highest ; and in this highest class it is impossible to 
refuse him all but the highest rank, in some few cases the very highest. He 
understood love pretty thoroughly ; and when a lyric poet understands love 
thoroughly there is little doubt of his position." In the list of Browning's 
best love lyrics, Evelyn Hope (first published in Men and Women, 1855) 
takes a very high rank as one of the most musical and tender. The theme 
is that of a love which, from its conditions, could not be reciprocated, yet 
would prove undying. 

15. unawares, unexpectedly. Cf. Home Thoughts, from Abroad {^\). 20. 
Made . . . dew. Of the four elements — earth, air, fire, and water — the 
omission of the first here is significant. 34. I shall say. Though this con- 
struction is somewhat involved, it seems to mean, In some future world when 
I have at last the right to claim you, the time will come when I shall ask, — 
'What meant' — etc.? The remainder of the lyric, save the last four lines, 
consists of the words he imagines himself saying to her in that future world. 

MY LAST DUCHESS 

My Last Duchess, published in 1842 in Dramatic Lyrics, is one of the 
earliest specimens of a kind of poetry in which Browning was destined to 
excel. This, " the poet's favorite art form," is known as the " dramatic mono- 
logue." In it some speaker appears, talking not to himself as in a soliloquy, 
but to a silent second person whose presence is to be inferred from the words 
of him who speaks. The monotony of a soliloquy is avoided by this means, 
since the interest consists not only in revealing the character of the speaker, 
but also in suggesting the effect which his arguments or appeals make upon 
the imaginary hearer. Sometimes the speaker directs a question to his audi- 
tor; sometimes he answers a look or gesture; at all times he speaks in his 
own character — and hence such a poem does not necessarily give any hint 
of the real thoughts or feelings of the poet himself. The dramatic monologue 
constituted a large part of Browning's poetry. It is generally written in 
blank verse, though in the present instance it rhymes in couplets. 

Nowhere has Browning made more artistic or effective use of this method 
than in My Last Duchess. The speaker is the Duke of Ferrara, an arrogant and 



556 NOTES TO BROWNING 

cold-hearted Italian, whose only interests are his pride of aristocratic lineage 
and his satisfaction in the treasures of art which he has collected. One of 
the paintings in which he takes most pleasure — because of its aesthetic qualities, 
not from any other emotion than those aroused by the contemplation and pos- 
session of rare and beautiful art — is a portrait of his young wife who has 
recently died. The envoy of a certain wealthy count has come to him to 
conclude arrangements for a new marriage between the widowed duke and 
the count's daughter. This little matter of business being finished to the 
duke's satisfaction, the latter good-naturedly and complacently entertains his 
guest by showing him through his picture gallery and explaining as they 
proceed. (On the dramatic monologue, see Introduction, p. ci.) 

1-21. 3. Fra Pandolf, a name of the poet's invention. ' Fra ' signifies 
brother, denoting that th's imaginary artist was a monk. 5-6. I said 
. . . design. From the * depth and passion ' of the portrait one might 
think that the artist was enamored with the Duchess. So the duke is 
accustomed to emphasize the fact that the painter was ' Fi-a Pandolf,' whose 
monastic vows should preclude any such possibility. 9-10. since ... I. 
" It's too precious a work of art to be intrusted to anybody else." (Corson.) 
' But ' here is used adverbially in the sense of only ; hence the nominative ' I.' 
See note on Horatius (355). 

21-34. Characterize the Duchess as portrayed in these lines. 25. favor, 
some gift, such as a jewelled breast-pin. 33. nine-hundred-years-old 
name : see introduction to notes. 

34-46. Characterize the duke from his unconscious portrayal of himself. 
40. lessoned, taught or instructed. 45. I gave commands. It was doubt- 
less the tone and spirit of the commands, rather than the words, that crushed 
the young wife's spirit. 46. Then all smiles stopped together. On these 
words Berdoe remarks, " The concentrated tragedy of this line is a good 
example of the poet's power of compressing a whole life's story into two or 
three words." 

46-56. Show the artistic effect of thus abruptly dismissing the subject, 
and turning to the business at hand. 54-55. Notice . . . sea-horse. 
Several commentators have suggested that in these lines there is a " reference 
to the way he has tamed and killed his lady." Would this interpretation 
be artistic ? For what evident reason were the lines introduced ? 56. Claus 
of Innsbruck, another imaginary artist. 

ANDREA DEL SARTO 

This poem, published in Men and Women (1855), is one of Browning's 
best and most characteristic dramatic monologues. Andrea del Sarto (An- 
drew, son of the tailor), as he was nicknamed by his contemporaries, was born 
in Florence in 1487. After an apprenticeship as goldsmith and wood-carver 
he studied art, and, by the time of his early manhood, became known as 
" the faultless painter." The spiritual element is supposed to be lacking in 



ANDREA DEL SARTO 557 

his work, but in technique and accuracy of drawing he had hardly an equal. 
When twenty-five years of age he married a certain Lucrezia, a woman of 
wonderful physical beauty, but dishonest, vain, extravagant, and with a soul 
utterly incapable of appreciating her husband's art. 

In 1 5 18 the French king, Francis I, who had seen some of Andrea's 
work, invited him to Paris to paint in the French court. Here the artist 
spent several of the best months of his life, " painted proudly and prospered 
every way." But before long his wife wrote to him from Florence, urging 
him to come home. The king agreed to this, on condition that he soon 
return ; and, moreover, intrusted him with a large sum of money, with which 
he was to purchase in Italy works of art to be brought back to France. 
Lucrezia, finding out that he had this money, persuaded him to appropriate 
it to building a house for himself in Florence. Even after he had done this 
he was inclined to go back to France to take his punishment ; but the en- 
treaties of his wife, and his infatuation for her, decided otherwise. Andrea is 
conceived by Browning as never rising beyond the sphere of technical cor- 
rectness, — as " faultless " but uninspired to the last. Still there are paintings 
of his that might justify one in disagreeing with this verdict. He died of the 
plague in 1531, at the early age of forty-three, his wife surviving him for over 
forty years. 

Just how far Andrea's genius was blighted by this unhappy marriage is an 
open question, and has formed a frequent theme for discussion. Some critics 
insist that Browning's poem lays the shortcomings of Andrea rather at his 
own door than at that of Lucrezia. One commentator, after a study of the 
poem, declares, "No woman ruined his soul; he had no soul to ruin." 
Suffice it to say that, although his wife was notoriously false to him, he toiled 
for her, loved her, and clung to her to the end. She was the model for many 
of his pictures, and it was from one of these pictures that Browning got the 
idea for his poem. Mr. John Kenyon, a friend of the Brownings, had asked 
the poet to procure for him a copy of the portrait of Andrea del Sarto and 
Lucrezia, painted by Andrea, and now in a gallery of Florence. No copy 
could be found, however ; so Browning wrote and sent as a substitute this 
poem, which was intended to represent what he himself had got out of (or 
read into) this portrait of husband and wife. The scene is an open window 
of the house in Florence which had been built with the stolen gold. The 
time is evening. The painter is speaking in answer to his wife's demand for 
money for her lover (or 'cousin,' as she styles him). 

1-32. 5-7. I'll . . . price. What do these lines suggest as to Andrea's 
present ideals of his art ? Show how the opening lines strike the keynote of 
the whole poem. 15. Fiesole (pronounced Fyes'-6-la), a little city about 
three miles from Florence, built upon a hill above the river Arno. 16. use, 
are accustomed to do. 23-25. You . . . model : see introduction to these 
notes. 

33-53. 35. A common grayness. This tone was characteristic in much 
of Andrea's painting. 41-42. chapel top . . . convent-wall, evidently just 



558 NOTES TO BROWNING 

opposite the artist's home. 49-53. Love . . . lie. One editor says, "This 
is not piety, but Andrea's characteristic way of evading responsibility." Do 
you agree ? 

54-103. 54. You don't understand : see introduction to notes. 57. 
cartoon : see Diet, for definition of this word in this, its original sense. 
60-67. I can do . . . all of it : see introduction to notes. 76-82. Yet do 
much less . . . hand of mine : see introduction to notes. Professor Dowden 
quotes as follows from Vasari, " Had this master possessed a somewhat bolder 
and more elevated mind, had he been as much distinguished for higher quali- 
fications as he was for genius, he would, beyond all doubt, have been without 
an equal." But despite the matchless technique of Del Sarto, his was, after 
all, only a " low-pulsed craftsman's hand." In a word, he is represented 
as lacking soul. 83-87. Their works ... sit here. Discuss this passage. 
90-96. I . . . care. Morello is one of the peaks of the Apennines, north of 
Florence. Men may criticise its hue or outline if they wish, but the mountain 
is indifferent to it — is above criticism. How does Andrea apply this illustra- 
tion to his own case ? 

104-144. 105. The Urbinate. Raphael, born at Urbino, 1483, was one 
of the greatest of Italian painters. He died in 1520. Accordingly, the date 
of this monologue is fixed at 1525, six years before Andrea's death. 106. 
George Vasari. Giorgio Vasari (15 12-1574), who was once a pupil of Andrea, 
in his Lives of the Artists, is the one great original authority for the biogra- 
phies of Italian painters. 108. with kings and popes to see. Much of 
Raphael's best work was the frescoing of the rooms and corridors of the Vati- 
can. His art was distinguished by wonderful dignity, reserve, and nobility 
of soul, which Andrea recognizes as far outweighing his own technical skill. 
no. for it gives way. He attains heaven by reaching ' above ' and ' through ' 
his art. 120. Nay, Love, evidently in reply to a gesture on the part of Lu- 
crezia. 130. Agnolo. Michael Angelo (or, more correctly, Agnolo) was born 
in 1475, ^'^'^ died, when nearly ninety years of age, in 1564. He was both 
sculptor and painter, and excelled equally in technical skill and grandeur of 
conception. His greatest work was the decoration of the Sistine Chapel. 

145-176. 146. Paris lords, who knew of the embezzlement of the 
money intrusted to him by King Francis. See introduction to notes. 150. 
Fontainebleau, a town some forty miles from Paris, containing a famous palace 
of the French kings. 166. And had you not grown restless: see introduc- 
tion to notes. 173. there, in your heart. These lines are regarded by some 
as an example of Browning's obscurity. Are they susceptible of more than 
one interpretation ? Browning afterward changed the words ' have ended ' to 
'reach and stay.' Discuss whether this alteration throws light upon the 
meaning. 

177-210. 177-179. Rafael . . . wife, the words with which men will 
'excuse' him. Raphael's Madonna is more spiritual, — better fitted for re- 
ligious devotions, — since Andrea's was modelled on an earthly love. 178. 
The Roman's. The latter years of Raphael's hfe were spent in Rome. 186- 



RABBI BEN EZRA 559 

187. When . . . see: see note on 1. 108. 199. What he? In Andrea's child- 
like eagerness to recount to his wife the story of this splendid compliment, he 
has failed to notice that she is paying no attention. 201. chance, so lost. 
To what does he refer? 202. is, the subject is 'all I care for' (19SV 
207. I mean . . . more. Point out the pathos of this Hne. 210. cue-owls, 
owls common to Mediterranean regions. Their name is derived from their 
peculiar cry. The English name for them is scops owl. 

211-243. 212-213. house We built: see introduction to notes. 218. 
gold I did cement them with. Explain the figure. 219. Must you go? 
The lover for whom Lucrezia has been seeking money here summons her by 
whistling. See 1. 267. 241. scudi. A scudo (pi. satdi) is an Italian silver 
coin, worth about a dollar. 

244-267. 250. My . . . want. Vasari says that Andrea abandoned his 
" poor father and mother " when he became infatuated with Lucrezia. 255- 
256. Some . . . try. Let some good son try to paint. 259. here, on earth. 
261-262. Four . . . reed: see Revelation xxi. 15-17. 263. Leonard, 
Leonardo de Vinci (1452-15 19), who shares with Raphael and Michael 
Angelo the distinction of being the greatest among Italian artists. With his 
Last Supper painting in Italy probably reached its zenith. 

RABBI BEN EZRA 

Ben Ezra, as Browning has called him, — though more properly Ibn Ezra or 
Abenezra, — was a learned Jewish rabbi, who was born at Toledo in Spain, 
about 1092, and died, probably at Rome, about 1 167. He was a poet of some 
ability, an eminent scholar, and a distinguished thinker. He left Spain in 
1 140 on account of an outbreak against the Jews, and, though a great traveller, 
spent much of the rest of his life in Italy. As far as can be judged from what 
we know of Ben Ezra, the beliefs assigned to him in this poem were very like 
the creed of his actual teaching. He is said to have had faith in a future life ; 
to have insisted upon freedom of thought ; to have taught that the higher, or 
spiritual, soul of man is in eternal conflict with the lower, or animal, soul, — 
the passions and desires ; and to have held that old age, when wisdom has 
triumphed over passion, is the most important period of man's activity. In- 
deed, it has been said that in the case of Ben Ezra himself all of his writing 
was done after he had reached his fiftieth year. 

This poem was first published in the Dramatis Persona of 1864. Its poetic 
style differs widely from that of the blank verse ordinarily used by Browning, 
and may profitably be studied with a view to the harmonies of sound and 
sense. Though Rabbi Ben Ezra is unquestionably difficult, it is at the same 
time of great nobility of thought and marked originality. It shows Browning 
as a profound and yet poetic reasoner. Through the rabbi the poet is giving 
us much of his own philosophy of life ; and every careful reader will find here 
a lesson that should hearten, comfort, and sustain. 

1-30. I. Grow . . . me. Ben Ezra in his old age is supposed to be ad- 



560 NOTES TO BROWNING 

dressing a youth. Survey life with me, he says, and you will see that it is best 
and fullest in its last years. Thus the poem opens with a glorification of old 
age. 7-11. Not that . . . Youth sighed; Not that . . . it yearned. These 
clauses are objects of ' remonstrate' (15). These hopes and indecisions of youth, 
though they render his ' brief years ' more or less profitless, are really valuable as 
furnishing his chief distinction from the lower forms of life (16-18). 24. Irks 
. . . beast, does care irk, etc.? The bird and the beast are troubled by no 
doubts, no " obstinate questionings." Their material comfort is to them the 
end of life. 29-30. Nearer . . . believe. Point out the reasoning by which 
we are shown to be allied to God rather than to the lower animals. 

31-60. 39. Shall . . . fail. Not achievement but aspiration and effort 
are the measures of success. The brute creation may achieve its own perfec- 
tion — may get all it aims for, but its aims are low. 44. Whose . . . suit, 
whose soul is satisfied with providing creature comforts. 49. Yet gifts . . . 
use. The perfect bodily powers given to us must and can justify their exist- 
ence. 50-51. I own . . . power. The earlier part of man's life gives him 
power; it is the time of struggle and achievement, the time whan man 'lives 
and learns.' 52. dole, derived from deal ; i.e. the share dealt out. 57. I 
. . . too. The latter part of man's life teaches him Love as a necessary com- 
plement to the power. Both are motive forces of the universe. 

61-102. 61. pleasant is this flesh. The ascetic is not the true ideal of 
manhood; the body in its place is good and beautiful, and we should not 
allow ourselves to believe (67-72) that our soul's success is in spite of the 
body. 75. term, a resting-place or Jimit. 76. Thence, z.^. from youth, after 
having received the inheritance of the wisdom of maturity. Lessons have 
been learned (54) which make the life of the man wiser and his actions surer 
than in youth. This is the time (85-90) for self-testing. 84. indue, in its 
radical sense (Lat. z«^/«cr^). See Diet. 91-96. For . . . day. When evening 
is about to fade into night, a brief moment seems to delay the deepening gloom 
('the deed'). Analyze the metaphor and make its application. Whence 
comes the 'whisper from the west ' (94)? 98. lifted o'er its strife, i.e. the 
calm of old age. 100. rage, eager passion or desire. 

103-150. 106. Here, in old age. 109-114. As . . . Further. These 
lines furnish a suggestive antithesis between the respective functions of youth 
and of old age. no. acts uncouth, hesitating and clumsy endeavors. Cf, 
note on 11. 7-1 1. 113. tempt, make trial — the radical meaning of the 
word. 1 15-120. Enough . . . alone. Thus old age is the proper time for 
absolute knowledge. It has no concern with the noisy uncertainties of youth. 
This confidence of old age gives it serenity, the " faith that looks through 
death," the "philosophic mind" of which Wordsworth, too, has spoken. 
Only in old age, accordingly, — the time of this " absolute knowledge " of the 
soul, — can we take the proper measure of our past endeavors, discover 
whether we or our adversaries were right (123-132). 121. Be there . . . 
small. Let there be at last a judgment as to the greatness or littleness of 
man's actions in the past. 124, 125. I, they. Understand ' whom ' after each 



RABBI BEN EZRA 56 1 

word. Browning frequently suppresses the relative. 133-138. Not . . . 
trice. Performance — actual things accomplished — is not the measure of 
success, despite the world's opinion to the contrary. 139-150. But all . . . 
God: cf. note to 1. 39. Also cf. with this passage Lye. ^78-84). 141. 
passed, passed over through lack of proper estimate. 150. whose wheel 
the pitcher shaped. This introduces the fine metaphor of the Potter's 
wheel with which the poem ends. See Isaiah Ixiv. 8 and Jeremiah xviii. 2-6, 
God is the Potter. We, fixed to the wheel of life or time, are the clay which 
he shapes to his own uses. See the cut under Potter's wheel in the Century or 
some other dictionary. Our doubts and fears, joys and desires, perplexities 
and agonizings after truth, pressing upon us as the wheel revolves, serve as 
machinery meant to turn forth the clay (that is the human soul) in the form fit 
for the Potter's service. Thus the actually permanent is secured through 
what we had regarded as circumstance and change. 

151-192. 154-156. Thou . . . seize to-day, an apostrophe to the be- 
liever in that kind of Epicurean philosophy which lives only in the present; 
thinks all things change and pass away ; does not realize the permanence of 
the soul's achievements. 157-158. All that is, at all, Lasts ever: cf. the 
similar idea in Abt Vogler (69). 165. This Present . . . arrest, as indi- 
cated in the speech of 1. 156. 168. impressed, moulded or shaped. 169- 
174. What . . . stress. The ornamentations on the cup. The earlier 
grooves are made by the pressure of the Potter's tool upon our youthful lives. 
The skull-things proceed from the sterner pressure of the tool in our later 
years. But neither the Cupids at the base, nor the skull-things at the rim of 
the pitcher, are the end for which it was made. Its end is to be used as a 
drinking vessel at which the Master may slake his thirst (175-180). Dis- 
cuss in general the figure of the cup, its ornamentations, and its uses. Espe- 
cially explain 1. 180. 179. Master's lips. Mankind is being shaped for 
future communion with God. See Mattheiv xxvi. 29. 185. With . . . rife. 
What is meant by these 'shapes and colors'? 186. my end, to slake Thy 
thirst. That is to say, " man's chief end is to glorify God "; but to this func- 
tion the Shorter Catechism wisely adds the compensation, " and to enjoy Him 
forever." Neither face of the shield is complete without the other. 190. 
My times be in Thy hand: cf. Psalms xxiv. 15. 191. Perfect, a verb. 
192. Let age . . . the same. Thus it is age, and age alone, which is able to 
understand the significance of the whole of life. Accordingly for the youth 
whom the rabbi is addressing — 

" The best is yet to be, 
The last of life for which the first was made." 

Point out the stanzas that show the meaning of life to be the education and 
maturing of the soul ; also those that suggest the doctrine of immortality. 
Does the rabbi make any allowance for the free action of the human will in 
this development of the human soul? Indicate lines that may be regarded 
as touchstones. 



562 NOTES TO ARNOLD 

EPILOGUE (to ASOLANDO) 

Like Tennyson's Crossing the Bar, this Epilogue may be regarded as a 
valedictory — 2, great poet's last message to the world. Berdoe says in his 
Browning Cyclopedia that the volume containing these lines " was published 
in London on the very day on which the poet died in Venice." The follow- 
ing reference to this poem is also quoted from the Fall JlJall Gazette of Feb- 
ruary I, 1890. It was one evening just before his death illness that Browning 
was reading to his daughter-in-law and sister, from the printer's proof sheets, 
the third stanza of this Epilogue. " He said, ' It almost looks like bragging to 
say this, and as if I ought to cancel it; but it's the simple truth; and as it's 
true, it shall stand.' His faith knew no doubting. In all trouble, against all 
evil, he stood firm." This Epilogue was written in Browning's extreme old 
age, and sums up magnificently the aim and spirit of the poet's whole life. 
"Strive and thrive — fight on" is the noble and characteristic trumpet-call 
which we find in this, the last line of his last poem. It was a call which 
he had been sounding, in one form or another, for nearly sixty years. 

ARNOLD 

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 

The Forsaken Merman, though by no means the deepest or most preten- 
tious of Arnold's poems, is, nevertheless, one of the most imaginative and 
musical, and unquestionably the best known and most popular. The causes 
of its popularity are not far to seek. The music of its rhythm is exquisite. 
The pictures it presents are clear and definite. Its element of pathos is 
supremely touching and rings true. The ethical problem involved is not 
obtruded on the reader, yet is the vital motive of the poem. Has this 
mother saved her soul by her action, and, if so, was it worth saving ? A 
woman is married to a merman. Happiness is theirs until the wife discovers 
that continuance in this unhallowed union will involve the loss of her soul. 
And so it is that — 

" She left lonely for ever 
The kings of the sea." 

The Forsaken Merman was written in 1849 and published in Arnold's first 
book of poems. 

1-47. 6. wild white horses. The merman and his children have left 
their sea-caves and approached the shore, where they are surrounded by the 
foamy breakers of the surf. See 1. 21. 26. little grey church : see 11. 56- 
59. 34. silver bell : see 1. 54. What is gained by introducing the sound of 
the church bell into this passage ? 37. spent, in passing through the water. 
42. mail, the scales which cover and protect the snakes. 45. aye. This 
word is frequently mispronounced. With which line does it rhyme ? 

48-84. 53-54. She comb'd . . . far-off bell. Show how this couplet 
suggests the whole tragedy of the poem. 61. kind sea-caves. Why ' kind ' ? 



RUGBY CHAPEL 563 

64. were we long alone ? What are we to understand by this question, and 
by the other so often repeated, — ' Was it yesterday ? ' How long has she 
really been gone ? 68. down. Meaning ? 69. sea-stocks. A flowering 
plant growing upon the seacoasts of certain countries. 72-82. From the 
church . . . shut stands the door. Contrast the two pictures, — the one 
outside the church, the other inside. 

85-107. Draw the picture of the mother as outlined in the first and the 
last half of this stanza. How reconcile 'joyfully ' (88 and 95) with 'sigh' (loi 
and 105) ? Is it a change of mood, or is one of the moods only pretended 
and not real ? Does the merman 'see this or only imagine it ? 91. holy 
well, evidently a well of miraculous powers near the church of the little 
' white-walled town.' 

108-143. 118. A ceiling of amber, thus contrasting the peacefulness of 
their sea home with the storms of the upper air. 124. But, etc. Does this 
conjunction indicate that the two stanzas are to be contrasted ? If so, what 
are the elements of contrast ? Compare the songs which end each stanza. 
127. spring-tides, the tides which happen at, or soon after, the new and the 
full moon. But this is high tide. What, then, can the poet mean by ' low ' ? 
129. heaths starr'd with broom. Look up words and describe picture. 
131. blanch'd. Explain. 

RUGBY CHAPEL 

The chapel at Rugby is the burial place of Matthew Arnold's father. Dr. 
Thomas Arnold, the famous headmaster of the school, and known to all 
boys as " the Doctor " of Tom Browii's School Days at Rugby. Dr. Arnold 
was born on the Isle of Wight, 1795, and was educated at Winchester and 
at Oxford, where, at the age of twenty, he became a Fellow of Oriel. After 
leaving Oxford, in 1819, he opened a private school at Laleham on the 
Thames, which he conducted for nine years, and from which he was elected 
to the position of headmaster at Rugby. Rugby at that time ranked far 
below the more important English public schools, such as Eton, Harrow, or 
Winchester. The moral tone of the school was bad ; the standards were low ; 
self-indulgence, lawlessness, and contempt for authority were characteristics 
common among the boys. Such, however, was Arnold's ability, tact, and 
energy that within the fourteen years of his headmastership he raised Rugby 
to a place among the best of English schools, and gave it a name for inspiring 
in its boys seriousness of purpose and high ideals of Christian manhood. 

Rugby Chapel was written in November, 1857, when the elder Arnold had 
been dead fifteen years. At the time of his father's death Matthew Arnold, 
then a student at Oxford, was in his twentieth year. Much of his boyhood 
and youth had been spent in the companionship and under the guidance of 
his father, and this poem, accordingly, has a deeper and tenderer significance 
than belongs to most elegies. (On assonance, see Introduction, p. Ixxix.) 

1-36. What is the metre of Rugby Chapel, what effect does the swing of 
the lines produce, and how is this effect suited to the subject and the mood of 



564 NOTES TO ARNOLD 

the poem ? Does the absence of rhyme detract from the effect ? It may be 
noted that Arnold has used the same metrical system in other elegiac poems 
— such as Heine's Grave and Haworth Churchyard. I-13. Coldly . . . 
laid. Describe the scene as given in this first stanza. 16-17. That word 
. . . Brings thee back. How docs the word 'gloom' bring back his father ? 
30. Sudden. Dr. Arnold died of heart disease, June 12, 1842, when only in 
his forty-seventh year. 

37-57. Matthew Arnold was most liberal in his religious beliefs. Many 
tenets that some Christians regard as vital were not so to him; but rarely in 
any poet do we find a belief in a future Hfe stronger or more nobly expressed 
than in this passage. 

58-123. 58-72. What is . . . gone. Characterize and describe the 
type of mankind described in this division. 73-83. And . . . grave. 
Likewise characterize this class of men and show their aims. 80-81. Not 
. . . Fruitless, not to die fruitless without action. In the same way other 
obscurities of the poem may be cleared up by simple transposition of words. 
84-109. We . . . rocks. Show what experiences of life are symbolized by 
the various details of this fine metaphor, e.g. what is meant by the ' path ' 
(84), the 'goal' (85), the 'gorges' (88), the 'storm' (90), etc.? 
no. gaunt and taciturn host. For what does this 'host' stand ? 

124-144. In the metaphor of these lines the poet beautifully suggests 
the secret of his father's greatness. Point out the characteristics of Dr. 
Arnold, here outlined, which distinguish his life from such a life as that 
described in 11. 1 17-123. 

145-170. It is everywhere Matthew Arnold's teaching that the world 
can be saved only through its few supremely noble men, ' helpers and friends 
of mankind,' How has his father's life enforced this belief? 168. Yours 
is the praise, i.e. it is due to you. 

171-208. In these lines the poet reverts to his metaphor of the journey 
of life (11. 84-109), and indicates the work in store for those 'servants of 
God ' whose souls are of the same heroic mould as that of Dr. Arnold. 

DOVER BEACH 

In his Primer of English Literature, Stopford Brooke says of Arnold, 
"He embodied in his poetry, even in his early book of 1852, the restlessness, 
the dimness, the hopelessness of a world which had lost the vision of the 
ancient stars and could cling to nothing but a stoic conduct." In none of 
Arnold's poems is this view more clearly expressed than in Dover Beach. The 
dominant note of the poem is despair, yet there is a hint of the fortitude, the 
patience, the perseverance with which it is necessary for man to bear his lot. 
The poem is especially notable for its restraint of utterance and stoical self- 
repression and resignation. In all ways it is thoroughly characteristic of a 
large part of Arnold's poetical work. It originally formed part of the volume 
of 1867. 

The first stanza in wonderfully musical lines paints the scene before the 



THE VISION OF SIR LA UNFA L 565 

poet. But what is the prevailing note of the division? What is the thought 
referred to in 1. 19? Explain the metaphor of the third division and show 
what Arnold means by this ebbing of 'the sea of faith.' What are the ' naked 
shingles of the world ' (28) ? In the fourth division can you find any hope in 
the midst of the ' confused alarms ' ? Help, Arnold always taught, must come 
from the soul itself. What is meant in 1. 37 by the ' ignorant armies ' which 
' clash by night ' ? 

REQUIESCAT 

In this almost perfect dirge, attention need be called only to the melancholy 
music of the verse and to the rare taste which is shown in the choice of title. 
Keqiiiescat — May she rest — is a wish exquisitely appropriate for her whose 
' heart was tired ' and whose soul ' yearning ' for peace. 

LOWELL 

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 

The Vision of Sir Launfal was written in 1848, when Lowell was only in 
his thirtieth year. This poem has been very justly praised as one of the best 
America has ever produced; indeed, in many respects, it deserves to rank 
very high among the noblest poems of the English language. It has been 
said that it was composed in a single day; that its author became so absorbed 
in his theme that he hurried it to completion almost without pause. Traces 
of this haste may possibly be detected in a certain lack of unity. Critics have 
pointed out, for instance, that the two preludes, though in themselves charm- 
ing little nature poems, are not sufficiently vital to the story as a whole. 
Though this may be true, it is doubtless equally true that no one would be 
willing to dispense with these preludes or to change them in any important 
particular. Stedman, in his Poets of America, expresses the belief " that The 
Vision of Sir Latinfal owed its success quite as much to a presentation of 
nature as to its misty legend. It really is," he continues, " a landscape poem 
of which the lovely passage, 'And what is so rare as a day in June?' and 
the wintry prelude to Part Second are the specific features." 

The Vision of Sir Launfal is, however, much more than that. In spite 
of its " misty " mediaeval setting, the poem is essentially ethical, and as such 
is far greater than any mere " landscape poem." Its theme is the brotherhood 
of man, a revelation of that 'thread of the all-sustaining beauty which runs 
through all and doth all unite,' a contrast between a true ideal of the service 
of God and a false ideal of that service, a portrayal of that charity which 
" suffereth long and is kind." So much for its teaching. As to its art, The 
Vision of Sir Latinfal is one of the most purely poetical of all Lowell's poems. 
The diction, the figurative language, the music of the verse, the exquisite 
setting of the story, the fitting expression of keen insight and tender human 
sympathy — all unite to make this poem a masterpiece. 

Lowell has left the following account of the Holy Grail, whose quest forms 
the motif lo^: his plot: — 



566 NOTES TO LOWELL 

" According to the mythology of the Romancers, the San Greal, or Holy 
Grail, was the cup out of which Jesus Christ partook of the last supper with 
his disciples. It was brought into England by Joseph of Arimathea, and 
remained there, an object of pilgrimage and adoration, for many years in the 
keeping of his lineal descendants. It was incumbent upon those who had 
charge of it to be chaste in thought, word, and deed ; but, one of the keepers 
having broken this condition, the Holy Grail disappeared. From that time it 
was a favorite enterprise of the Knights of Arthur's court to go in search of 
it. Sir Galahad was at last successful in fmding it, as may be read in the 
seventeenth book of the Romance of King Arthur. Tennyson has made Sir 
Galahad the subject of one of the most exquisite of his poems. 

" The plot (if I may give that name to anything so sHght) of the following 
poem is my own, and, to serve its purposes, I have enlarged the circle of com- 
petition in search of the miraculous cup in such a manner as to include not 
only other persons than the heroes of the Round Table, but also a period of 
time subsequent to the date of King Arthur's reign." 

Thus we see that- this is not an Arthurian legend ; nor is it in the strictest sense 
of the word a story of knightly adventure. At the same time it is sufficiently 
tinged with the spirit of old romance to be included properly among these 
" poems of chivalry." 

1-8. This may be called a general prelude to the poem, and really pre- 
cedes " Prelude to Part First." Show the relation to the poem and trace the 
figure running through these lines, noting that the chords struck by the 
organist symbolize similar chords sounded by the poet in his preludes, each 
chord bringing him nearer to his ultimate theme. What is the versification 
of these lines? 4. bridge. What is this bridge and what does it span? 
Trace the steps by which the poet conducts the reader over this bridge from 
his everyday world to the world of the vision. The story is rich in poetic 
figures and memory-images; the student should apply in the analysis of them 
the paragraphs on Creative Expression in the Introduction, pp. xlii-xlvii. 

9-32. 9-12. The first chord struck by the poet. 9-10. Not . . . lie, 
suggested liy Wordsworth's Ode on the Intimations of Immortality, Stanza V, 
especially 1. 66. But the older poet's thought (see notes on Ode, Stanzas V 
and VI) is very different from that of Lowell, who is saying that we fail to see 
heaven, not because we have forgotten it, but because we are wilfully blind 
to it. 12. Sinais climb, i.e. get face to face with God. See Exodus xix. 17- 
20. 13-20. The second chord. Explain its relation to the preceding lines. 
13. manhood, the emphatic word of the line. Why? 14. fallen, from 
what? traitor, to what ? 15. prophecies, of what ? 16. mountain. Ob- 
serve the contrasts, in all these lines, between nature and man, e.g. the firm 
and stable 'mountain' striving with the 'faint heart.' 17. druid wood. Show 
suggestiveness of epithet. 21-32. The third chord. Show connection and 
meaning as before. 21-24. Earth ... in. What does Earth give us, and 
what is its price ? Discuss the three instances, and show why chosen. 
25-28. At . . . tasking. What is ' the devil's booth ' as distinguished from 



THE VISION OF SIR LA UNFA L 567 

' Earth ' ? Discuss the instances given. 27. pay. In what way do we pay 
our lives ? 29-30. 'Tis . . . asking. What is meant here by ' heaven ' and 
'God'? 31-32. No . . . comer. Two transitional lines, introducing the 
next theme or chord. 

33-56. '\\v& fourth chord. Name the various things which together make 
up this New England June day, for it is a New England June that the poet is 
describing. 35. if it be in tune. Syntax and meaning of this clause ? What 
musical instrument has the poet in mind ? 38. murmur . . . glisten. Give 
illustrations of the ' murmur ' and of the ' glisten.' 39. clod. In what sense 
does it climb to a ' soul ' ? 45. startles, starts up as if by magic. 46. butter- 
cup. Why the buttercup, rather than some other flower ? 50. like a blossom. 
Show in what respects this dainty comparison is true. 54. dumb breast. 
Observe the beautiful allusion to the mother instinct in the bird. 56. nice. 
Just what does the word mean here ? which song ? What do you think 
would be the poet's answer to his own question ? Why ? 

57-79. 57-60. Now . . . bay. Discuss the figure, showing its aptness. 
61. Now ... it. Explain. 70. dandelions. What is the derivation of 
this word ? 67-79. We . . . crowing. These lines furnish a good example 
of what is called " indirect description." 77. bold chanticleer, often referred 
to by Lowell. What is the force of the adjective ? 

80-95. 82. upward striving. What former lines illustrate this ? 
83-85. 'Tis . . . living. What seems to be Lowell's conception of the influ- 
ence of nature upon man ? Compare with W^ordsworth in Tintern Abbey 
(107-111). Which is the finer view? 86. Who knows, and who cares? 
W'hat is gained by the figure ? 90. The . . . youth. Explain. 91-93. 
And . . . snow. Discuss this figure, and compare it with the two which 
have before brought out the same thought, 11. 57-60 and 11. 86-87. What are 
the differences, and which is the truer conception ? Are our past sorrows 
really effaced or only covered over ? 94-95- What . . . vow. Observe 
that the organist has found the chord for which he has been groping; the poet 
has reached his theme, which he is to develop by means of the story of a 
dream. Note how these two lines effect a transition which allows the abrupt 
introduction to Part First. 

91-108. What has been the versification of the prelude ? What are the 
rhyme and metre of Part I ? In which is there the more irregularity, and 
what seems to be the effect produced by the irregular lines ? 99. Holy Grail : 
see introduction to notes. 100-105. This seeking for a vision before setting 
out on a quest was not uncommon among knights; but the zest with which 
the vision is sought marks certain trails of Sir Launfal. What are they ? At 
what time of day does he go to sleep, and is it indoors or outside the castle ? 
105. Ere day . . . anew. Discuss the figure. 107. like a cloud. Show 
the points of comparison. 

109-127. Discuss whether this stanza is (i) a part of Sir Launfal's 
dream; or (2) a part of his waking consciousness as he gradually falls asleep; 
or (3) merely a description by the poet, bridging the time from the going to 



568 NOTES TO LOWELL 

sleep to the beginning of the dream in Stanza III. 109-113. The crows , . . 
trees. What time of day is this? 114-115. The castle . . . gray. In 
what sense is the castle 'an outpost'? 116. North Countree. Where may 
we suppose this to be ? Observe the archaic form of ' country ' as in the older 
ballads. What effect does this produce ? 122-125. pavilions . . . tent. 
What were they ? 

128-146. 131. flamed so bright. How does the poet show this bright- 
ness ? 134. siege. What suggests the word, and where suggested before ? 
137. locust-leaf. What peculiarity of the locust leaf justifies this compari- 
son ? Note alliteration and its effect. 138. unscarred, because a ' maiden 
knight.' 140-146. Point out the contrasts in this stanza, and explain how the 
knight can be so fully in sympathy with the summer, and, at the same time, 
be the controlling spirit of the gloomy castle. In what is he lacking ? 
140. hill and stream and tree. This is a good instance of the poetic value 
of the specific and definite rather than the general. See note on Horati us {2'^) . 

147-158. Note the attitude of Sir Launfal toward the leper. He believes 
himself to be going on a great mission for the glory of God ; all nature has 
seemed propitious ; his heart is throbbing with his consciousness of the 
beauty of the morning and the grandeur of his quest, when suddenly this 
loathsome creature spoils it all (as it appears to him) by getting in the way. 
What evident misconception of the knight as to the real meaning of religion 
and the service of God? 147. made morn. Explain. 149. sate: see note 
on ' countree ' (116). 154. Like a frozen waterfall. Show the force of this 
figure. 156. dainty nature. I low do these words explain the character and 
action of Sir I.aunfal ? 158. So . . . scorn. Why did he give him anything ? 
Force of ' tossed ' ? 

159-173. Discuss the reasons for the leper's reception of Sir Launfal's 
gift. 163. which the hand can hold, modifies what ? Why is such not 
'true alms'? 164-165. Is the leper right in condemning giving 'from a 
sense of duty' ? 166. mite. A coin of exceedingly small value — less than 
a quarter of a cent. Look up allusion in Mark xii. 42. 167. to that, the 
preposition means partly, in recognition of that, and partly, because of that. 
168-169. That . . . unite. What is this 'thread' which thus binds the whole 
world together ? 170. The hand . . . alms. Why not ? 171. The heart 
. . . palms. Explain. 172. a god goes with it. Meaning? store, abun- 
dance. 173. starving, for want of what ? in darkness, of what kind ? 

174-210. Try to conceive a definite picture of this stanza — one in which 
each detail shall be consistent with the rest. How does a brook freeze, and 
what is the appearance of the under side of the ice ? 174-180. Down . . . 
bare. Indicate the means by which the coldness of the wind is emphasized. 

175. summers. Why is ^summers'' more suitable here than winters? 

176. wold, here means a rolling, treeless stretch of country. 180. unleafed. 
Why is this better than leafless? 182. him. A personal pronoun used for 
a reflexive. So frequently in poetry. Cf. 'me' (162). 183. white stars. 
Why ' white ' ? 184. groined his arches. A groin is the angle formed by 



THE VISION OF SIR LA UNFA L 569 

the intersection of arches. What were the arches in this case ? What the 
beams ? What the crystal spars ? 186. lashes . . . stars, the little rays 
that edge the stars, and seem to dart out as they twinkle. 187. summer 
delight : see 11. 205-210. 189-192. Sometimes . . . breeze. Describe this 
little forest under the ice. What were the steel-stemmed trees ? Why did 
they bend, and in what direction, i.e. up or down stream ? What onomato- 
pceia in these lines ? 194. mosses. Was this real moss or an ice formation ? 
195-196. Sometimes . . . leaf. What and where was the carving? Why 
called ' arabesques ' ? Derivation and meaning of word ? 202. a star. These 
drops, on the 'nodding' bulrushes, were the stars for the fairy occupants of 
the winter palace. 204. winter-palace. Ice-built palaces were constructed 
first in Russia ; now frequently in Canada. 205-210. 'Twas . . . frost. 
Discuss this beautiful picture. What might have been some of these images, 
or ' fleeting shadows ' ? 

211-224. Explain the contrast between this stanza and the last. 212. 
cheeks of Christmas. Is this a personification or a metonymy ? 214. 
lightsome. Does it mean the same here as in 1, 137 ? 215-216. Through 
. . . tide. Explain the figure. 217-218. The . . . wind. Show how the 
flame resembles a flag. 219-220. Like . . . blind. In what sense is the sap 
'hunted to death,' what are its 'blind galleries,' and what makes the noise? 
221-224. And . . . deer. Show how the sparks, eddying with the draught 
through the loose soot in the chimney, are like deer, while the soot is like a 
forest. 

225-239. 225-232. But . . . shelterless. With what are these lines 
in contrast ? Discuss the figure which they express, showing whether it is 
attractive, true, effective, and whether it adds to, or detracts from, the poem. 
231. burden, the theme of a musical composition. 232. shelterless. What 
is the effect of the repetition ? 233. seneschal. His duties seem to be those 
of both warden and steward, flared. How can a voice be said to flare? 
238. piers. Describe these piers. In what direction do they slant ? What 
is the ' drift' against which they were seen? 

240-257. 241. rattled shudderingly. Show effect of the onomatopoeia, 
and force of the adverb. 243. For . . . spun. Explain the figure. 244- 
245. A single . . . sun. Contrast with 11. 11 i-i 12. Why 'cold' sun? 250. 
hard gate. Explain the epithet. 251. sate: see note on 1. 116. 252. man. 
Syntax? 255. No more . . . cross. Show the significance of the fact that 
the cross is no longer ostentatiously displayed. What lesson has Sir Launfal 
learned? 256. sign, i.e. of the cross. In what sense was it 'the badge of 
the suffering and the poor'? 

258-272. 259. Was . . . air. Explain the figure. 261. sunnier 
clime, perhaps in the Holy Land or near it. Observe the comfort and pleas- 
ure that Sir Launfal derives from these imaginings, yet how willingly he turns 
toward the grewsome leper. 265. black and small. Syntax? 269-272. 
To where . . . palms. Show points of appropriateness in the figure. 

273-287. 273. For . . . alms. What is the effectiveness of this sudden 



570 NOTES TO LOWELL 

interruption? Observe the rhyme, and explain how this adds to the effect of 
suddenness. 274. may, as far as Sir Launfal cares. 275-279. But . . . 
disease. Show how it suits the poet's purpose to make the leper horrible. 
278-279. Significance of the simile? 280. And. The force here of this con- 
junction? Why was but not used? 280-285. I behold . . . side: see 
Matthew xxvii. 29, Mark xv. 17, z.x\A John xx. 25, 27. What points of resem- 
blance does Sir Launfal see between the leper and Christ? 281. tree, cross. 
287. Behold . . . Thee : see Matthew xxv. 40. 

288-301. 291. flung an alms. Force of 'flung'? leprosie. What 
distinction is there between giving to the leper and giving to '■ leprosie^l 
294. ashes and dust. What do these symbolize? C/i the phrase " sackcloth 
and ashes." 295-297. He . . . drink. Compare his present with his former 
action. Why does the poet not make Sir Launfal give all his crust to the 
leper? 300. Yet . . . fed. Explain. 301. with his thirsty soul. Why is 
he said to have drunk with his soul ? Cf,\. 173. 

302-327. 302. mused. On what was Sir Launfal musing, and why 
with 'downcast face' ? 303. A light, coming from the transfigured leper, who 
now proves to be the Christ. 307. Beautiful Gate : see Acts iii. 2. 308. 
Himself the Gate : s^e. John x. 9. What does this metaphor mean, and what 
is meant by 'the temple of God in Man'? 310-313. His words . . . upon. 
Which of the two similes is the more expressive of softness? of healing power? 
314. calmer than silence. Can there be anything 'calmer than silence'? 
What is the rhetorical figure? See Introduction. 318. it is here — this 
cup. What has made of this wooden cup a holy grail? What is significant 
in the fact that it was in Sir Launfal's possession all the while, and was found 
at the gate of his own castle rather than in distant climes? Show how this 
discovery reverts to the "first chord" of the poem, 11. 9-12. 320-322. This 
crust . . . indeed : see Matthezu xxvi. 28. Note that Sir Launfal has tnore 
than found the Grail; that he is actually partaking in a holy supper. What 
is now shown to be the true Holy Grail, and where may it be found? 324- 
325. Not what . . . bare. Do these words condemn what we ordinarily 
term " charity "? What shall we say of the man who contributes for the help 
of those with whom he never comes into contact? Of the man whose wealth 
is so great that he gives without making any self-sacrifice? Is sharing a. neces- 
sary condition of true charity? 326. feeds three. Explain how the giver 
feeds Christ and himself as well as the recipient. 

328-347. The vision of Sir Launfal is now ended. The quest is proved 
unnecessary, for the true Grail has been discovered. Discuss the change 
which this discovery must have brought into the life and ideals of the knight. 
328. swound: cf. Ancient Mariner (62). 332. stronger mail. What is 
meant? 334-336. The castle . . . bough. Discuss the figure. 336. hang- 
bird, the Baltimore oriole. See Diet, under both hangbird and Baltimore 
oriole. 338-343. The Summer's . . . round: see 11. 119-127. Describe 
and account for the change. 346-347. And there's . . . he. In what sense 
is this true? What lessons can you suggest which Sir Launfal may have learned 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 57 1 

from his vision? Which lines in the poem seem to you most poetic, and why? 
(See Introduction, pp. ciii-cxi.) 

IDYLLS OF THE KING 

The history of the legends which form the substance of the Idylls of the 
Kitig has already been traced in the text introducing the poems of chivalry. 
Lack of space prevents the inclusion of more than three of the Idylls in this 
book. The four following general notes will, we trust, clear up for the student 
most of the difficulties he will encounter. 

[Note I.] The Co)?iing of Arthur 

In this introductory Idyll we meet the great king just after he has placed 
himself upon the throne and founded his new order of knighthood. He has 
been summoned by a neighboring ruler, Leodogran, the king of Cameliard, to 
help defend that suffering cfluntry against the ravages of the " beast " and the 
incursions of the Saxon hordes. King Arthur responds to the appeal, slays 
the " wild dog, and wolf, and boar, and bear," drives off the heathen invaders, 
and falls in love with Guinevere, " fairest of all flesh on earth," the daughter of 
the king. Returning to his own land he finds the country in tumult; for the 
" barons of his realm, colleaguing with a score of petty kings," have risen in 
rebellion against him. With the aid of Sir Lancelot, however, his best loved 
and most highly honored knight, he completely overthrows the rebels — 
among them Lot, the husband of Arthur's reputed half-sister, Bellicent, 
Having thus overcome his foes, Arthur quickly sends " the bold Sir Bedivere, 
first made of all his knights," to King Leodogran — 

"Saying, ' If I in aught have served thee well, 
Give me thy daughter Guinevere to wife.' " i 

Before giving answer to the suit, Leodogran seeks to learn the secret of 
Arthur's birth, for some there were who denied his right to the title of a king. 
Sir Bedivere tells the commonly accepted story of Arthur's parentage, — that 
he is the son of King Uther and his " winsome wife Ygerne," and half-brother 
of — 

" Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellicent," 
who — 

" Hath ever like a loyal sister cleaved 
To Arthur." 

Still the old king hesitates. But happily Queen Bellicent herself comes on a 
visit to Cameliard, bringing with her two of her sons, the light-hearted and 
sunny-tempered, though irresponsible and somewhat selfish Gawain, and the 
sullen, suspicious, evil-hearted Modred. In his perplexity Leodogran asks her 
to reveal what she knows of this suitor for his daughter's hand. Bellicent, 
responding, describes the impressive scene when Arthur ascended the throne, 

1 All the passages quoted in Note I are from The Coming of Arthur. 



572 NOTES TO IDYLLS OF THE KING 

bound his knights to himself by solemn vows of fealty, and so founded the 
Order of the Table Round. She tells how the coronation ceremonies were 
graced by the old mage Merlin; how they were glorified by the Lady of the 
Lake (the symbol of Religion or the Church), who "dwells down in the 
deep," — 

" Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful; " 

how near the new-crowned King there stood " three fair queens " (thought 
to symbolize some such virtues as Faith, Hope, and Charity), — 

" Who stood in silence near his throne, the friends 
Of Arthur, gazing on him, tall, with bright 
Sweet faces, who will help him at his need." 

She relates how there was borne before the King the magic sword Excalibur, 
the sword — 

" That rose from out the bosom of the lake, 
And Arthur row'd across and took it — rich 
With jewels, elfin Urim, on the hilt. 
Bewildering heart and eye — the blade so bright 
That men are blinded by it — on one side. 
Graven in the oldest tongue of all this world, 
' Take me,' but turn the blade and ye shall see, 
And written in the speech ye speak yourself, 
' Cast me away ! ' And sad was Arthur's face 
Taking it, but old Merlin counsell'd him, 
' Take thou and strike ! the time to cast away 
Is yet far-off.' So this great brand the King 
Took, and by this will beat his foemen down." 

So far Leodogran is partly reassured. Yet he questions still further. 
Bellicent is " dark in hair and eyes "; but Arthur is " fair " with " blue eyes," 
and " light and lustrous curls." How, then, can he be her brother? And now 
it is that the Queen confides to King Leodogran a secret known to no other 
mortal than herself and Merlin, the aged wizard of King Uther's court. But 
first she motions to her boys to pass out of the room, — 

" And Gawain went, and breaking into song 
Sprang out, and follow'd by his flying hair 
Ran like a colt, and leapt at all he saw; 
But Modred laid his ear beside the doors. 
And there half-heard — the same that afterward 
Struck for the throne, and striking found his doom." 

Her sons withdrawn, Queen Bellicent tells her secret to the king: how she 
had been brought up with Arthur and had regarded him as her brother; but 
how in later days there had been imparted to her the mystery of Arthur's 
coming into the world. For on the night when King Uther lay on his death- 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 573 

bed, " moaning and wailing for an heir," Merlin, worn out with attending 
his dying master, — 

" Left the still king, and passing forth to breathe," 

walked by the shore and — 

" watched the great sea fall 
Wave after wave, each mightier than the last. 
Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep 
And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged 
Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame : 
And down the wave and in the flame was borne 
A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet. 
Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried, ' The King! 
Here is an heir for Uther ! ' And the fringe 
Of that great breaker, sweeping up the strand, 
Lash'd at the wizard as he spake the word. 
And all at once all round him rose in fire, 
So that the child and he were clothed in fire. 
And presently thereafter follow'd calm, 
Free sky and stars : And this same child, 
Is he who reigns." 

She had sought to learn more from Merlin, the Queen continues, but — 

" He laugh'd as is his wont, and answer'd me 
In riddling triplets of old time, and said : — 

" ' Rain, sun, and rain ! and the free blossom blows : 
Sun, rain, and sun ! and where is he who knows ? 
From the great deep to the great deep he goes.' " 

Thus it came about that old King Leodogran, at last satisfied, and strength- 
ened in his determination by a certain wondrous dream, sends the bold Sir 
Bedivere — 

" Back to the court of Arthur answering yea. 

" Then Arthur charged his warrior whom he loved 
And honor'd most. Sir Lancelot, to ride forth 
And bring the Queen, and watch'd him from the gates; 
And Lancelot past away among the flowers — 
For then was latter April — and return'd 
Among the flowers, in May, with Guinevere. 
To whom arrived, by Dubric the high saint. 
Chief of the church in Britain, and before 
The stateliest of her altar-shrines, the King 
That morn was married ; while in stainless white, 
The fair beginners of a nobler time. 
And glorying in their vows and him, his knights 
Stood round him, and rejoicing in his joy." 



574 NOTES TO IDYLLS OF THE KING 

This, then, is the story of " the coming " and the marriage of Arthur. 
Great, good, noble-hearted, he realizes his mighty mission in the world. He 
knows that Merlin has said : — 

" Tho' man may wound him that he will not die, 
But pass, again to come ; and then or now 
Utterly smite the heathen under foot, 
Till these and all men hail him for their King." 

He sets himself to found a kingdom in accord with his high ideals. Thus far 
the Romans and the heathen hordes have more than once menaced his new 
realm, but his heart has told him that — 

"The old order changeth, yielding place to new. 

"And Arthur and his knighthood for a space 
Were all one will, and thro' that strength the King 
Drew in the petty princedoms under him, 
Fought, and in twelve great battles overcame 
The heathen hordes, and made a realm and reign'd." 

[Note H.] Persons and Places of the Idylls 

In Note I, the story of The Coming of Arthur, we have already called 
attention to : — 

1. King Arthur, 7. Sir Lancelot, 

2. Queen Guinevere, 8. Sir Bedivere, 

3. King Lot of Orkney, 9. King Uther, Arthur's predecessor, 

4. Queen Bellicent, 10. Merlin, the magician, 

5. Sir Gawain, 11. The Lady of the Lake, 

6. Sir Modred, 12. The three fair queens, 

13. King Leodogran. 

The following is a list of additional names, some knowledge of which is 
necessary to the understanding of the three Idylls included in the text. 

1. Pendragon, "the dragon's head," a name for Uther, who was accus- 
tomed to carry with him a golden dragon to his wars. The name afterward 
descended to Arthur, the reputed son of Uther. The symbol was suggested 
by a dragon-like appearance in the heavens, seen at the death of the former 
king, Aurelius, brother of Uther. 

2. Aurelius Emrys. Brother and predecessor of Uther on the throne of 
Britain. lie is said to have been poisoned by a Saxon. 

3. King Mark of CornwalL Next to Modred the most evil character of 
the Idylls. Among other deeds of which he was guilty was the treacherous 
murder of his nephew. Sir Tristram. 

4. Sir Tristram. A noble knight, son of Mark's sister. In the Idylls he 
is called Mark's " cousin," but that word is used in its general sense of kins- 
man. Through the power of a magic potion Tristram was made to fall in 
love with Mark's wife, Iseult. 

5. Sir Kay. The seneschal or steward of Arthur's hall. In a sense he is 



PERSONS AND PLACES 5/5 

the comic character of the poem, always overbearing and officious, and always in 
trouble. He was the foster-brother of Arthur, who loved him despite his faults. 

6. Sir Geraint. A brave and noble knight, ever loyal to Arthur, and, finally, 
killed in his service. He was the husband of Enid, and is the chief character 
in two of the most charming of the Idylls. 

7. Sir Galahad. A celebrated knight, called " the chaste," who achieved 
the quest of the Holy Grail. His pure and unselfish nature made him the 
ideal of chivalry as well as an exemplar of religion. 

8. Sir Percivale. The first of Arthur's knights to learn the story of the 
Grail. He is the speaker and principal character in the Idyll of the Holy 
Grail. At last forced to abandon his quest of the Grail, for which by nature 
he was all unfit, he leaves knighthood and enters upon a monastic life. 

9. Sir Gareth. Son of Lot and Bellicent, and brother of Gawain and 
Modred, yet of much finer character than these two knights. He was tall 
and gracious of form. From his large and shapely hands he derived the name 
of " Beaumains," or " Fair Hands." 

The following are the most important places mentioned in our three Idylls. 

1. Lyonnesse. A fabulous country, formerly adjacent to Cornwall, though it 
has long since disappeared, and is said to be now hundreds of feet under water. 

2. Camelot. This city of Arthur's court has been variously located. Ten- 
nyson has left the following account : " On the latest limit of the West, in the 
land of Lyonnesse, where, save the rocky isles of Scilly, all is now wild sea, 
rose the sacred Mount of Camelot. It rose from the deeps with gardens and 
bowers and palaces, and at the top of the mount was King Arthur's hall, and 
the holy minster with the cross of gold. The mount was the most beautiful 
in the world, sometimes green and fresh in the beam of morning, sometimes 
all one splendor, folded in the golden mists of the West. But all underneath 
was hollow, and the mountain trembled, when all the seas rushed bellowing 
through the porphyry caves; and there ran a prophecy that the mountain and 
the city on some wild morning would tumble into the abyss and be no more." 

3. Avilion. A mythical Isle of the Blessed famed in Celtic story, situ- 
ated far in the western ocean. In this terrestrial paradise Arthur and other 
Celtic heroes are supposed to live forever. 

4. Caerleon. On the river Usk in Wales, one of the most important resi- 
dences of Arthur and his court. 

5. Caerlyle. Carlisle in Cumberland, which like Caerleon was frequently 
the scene of knightly tournaments. 

6. Caer Eryri. The summit of Snowdon, the highest peak in Britain. 

7. Almesbury. A convent of the Benedictine nuns, situated in Wiltshire, 
not far from Salisbury. Thither Guinevere withdrew when her guilty love for 
Lancelot had been discovered by the king. 

8. Badon hilL Probably Badbury Hill in Dorsetshire; the battlefield on 
which the Britons under Arthur are said to have checked for a time the ad- 
vance of the West Saxons (about 520 A.D.). 

9. Battlefields of Arthur. The " twelve great battles " (see end of Note 



576 



NOTES TO IDYLLS OF THE KING 



I) in which Arthur overthrew the heathen were, in order of occurrence, at 
the following places: i. Glem (Lincolnshire or Northumberland); 2, 3, 4, 5. 
Diiglas (a small stream in Britain) ; 6. Bnssa (a rocU in the Firth of Forth) ; 
7. Celidon (the Caledonian forest) ; 8. Gurnion Castle (in Norfolk) ; 9, 
Z(?f?Vw (the city of Exeter) ; 10. Trath Z'rtvo/V (a river in Lancashire); il. 
Breguoin (a mountain in Northern England); 12. Badon (the place of final 
victory. See note 8 above). 

10. Astolat. The home of Elaine. Supposed to be at Guilford in Surrey. 

11. Castle Perilous. The fanciful name given to the home of Lyonors and 
Lynette. 

12. Gelt. A river in Cumberland, on the cliffs above which are certain 
inscriptions supposed to have been made by a Roman " vexillary " or standard 
bearer. 

[Note III.] Time Occupied by the Idylls 

Modified from Maccallum's Tennyson's Idylls and Arthurian Story. 

The reign of Arthur may be supposed to have lasted twelve years. The 
order of its events is recorded in the Idylls as follows : — 



ist Year. 



2d Year. 

3d Year. 
4th Year. 
5th Year. 

6th Year. 
7th Year. 
8th Year. 

9th Year. 

loth Year. 

nth Year. 



1 2th Year. 



\. 



Idvi.l. 
The Coming of Arthur, 



II. I. Gareth and Lynette {7). 

2. Marriage of Geraint (?). 

3. Geraint and Enid (?). 

4. Balin and Balan (?), 

5. Merlin and Vivien (?) 

6. Lancelot and Elaine. 

7. The Holy Grail. 

8. Pelleas and Ettarre. 



Chief Events. 

Coronation. Founding of Round 
Table. Crushing of Rebellion. 
Marriage to Guinevere. Wars 
with the Heathen and with 
Rome. 

First of the Diamond Tourna- 
ments. 



Adventures of Gareth. Tristram 
knighted. 

Adventures of Geraint. 

" Geraint in the waste land." 

Love between Lancelot and Guin- 
evere becomes guilty. 

Betrayalof Merlin by Vivien. (See 
note, Eve of St. Agnes, iTi.) 

Last of the Diamond Tourna- 
ments. 

Quest of the Grail. 



9. The Last Tournament. 



Discovery by Arthurofthe Queen's 
unfaithfulness. Tristram slain 
by Mark. 

(An interval of several weeks) . 

10. Guinevere. Last interview between Arthur 

and the Queen. 

IIL The Passing of Arthur. Arthur's march, last battle, and 

passing. 



G ARE Til AND LYNETTE ^77 

[Note IV.] Poetical Nature and Eorm of the Idylls 

There has been much discussion among critics as to whether the Idylls of 
the King may properly be considered an epic. It is certainly true that this 
production is not an epic in the sense in which the term is applied to the 
Iliad, or the /Eneid, or Paradise Lost, — poems characterized by continuity 
of narrative and unity of action. In a certain sense, though carrying out and 
developing a central theme, Tennyson's Idylls form not one poem, but twelve. 
As a whole, the production has epical quality, and may be characterized as an 
episodical or idyllic epic. (See Introduction, pp. xciv, ci.) 

The metrical form of the Idylls is blank verse, — a blank verse finer than 
anything of its kind since Milton. The lines are not arbitrarily or mechani- 
cally formed. With the instinct of a true artist the poet constantly varies the 
cadence to suit the theme in hand. It will prove an extremely profitable study 
to examine the metre of many lines and paragraphs, to note the pauses, the 
suljstitutions of feet, the sequence of tones, and the harmonic relation between 
sound and sense. (See Intkoduction, pp. Iviii, Ixxvi.) 

GARETH AND LYNETTE 

1-177. I. Lot and Bellicent: see Note I.i 2. Gareth: see Note II.i 
3. spate, a noun of Celtic origin, meaning a river flood. 14. whistled tO. 
From what is the metaphor drawn? 18. yield, Ijless or reward. 20. dis- 
caged: see 1. 14. 25, 26. Gawain, Modred: see Note I. 37. an, if. See 
11. 40, 50, 98. 46. Book of Hours, a prayer-book containing prayers pre- 
scribed for various hours, and richly adorned or " illuminated " with borders, 
initial letters, or miniature pictures in colors and gold. One of these illustra- 
tions, in this case, was a palm-tree. 47. haunting, in its original meaning of 
frequenting or lingering. 51. leash, used in general for the number three. 
This use arose from the custom of leading three greyhounds by a leash, or 
thong, of leather. 56. clomb. Archaic for climbed. 66. brand Excalibur : 
see Note I. 70. him, the 'lusty youth' with longing for the egg of steel, — 
the quest of high adventure. 75, 76. traitor to the King, barons' war: 
see Note I. 85. jousts. A joust is a tilting match between knights on h(jrse- 
back. 87. often, frequent. 88. falls, as the knights are thrown from their 
horses in tournament. 90. burns : see note on C'd)w?« (313). 94. my prone 
year, my declining years. 104. But, only. 122. frequent, associated. 
128. cloud . . . birth: see Note I. 131. yield me, let me go; give in to 
my wishes. 133-135. who swept . . . free: see Note 1. 151. knaves, in 
the original meaning of servant or boy. Cf Ger. knabe. 152. bar, a railing 
between kitchen and dining hall. 157. villain, degrading, such as would 
suit those who are base-born. A villain was originally a feudal tenant of the 
lowest class (from Lat. ot7/(/, a farm). 162. thrall, a slave or bondman. 172. 
Perplext his outward purpose. His mother's wistful tenderness rendered 
difficult his plan of going away ('outward purpose'). 176. still, constantly. 
1 The reference is to the " general notes " preceding. 



578 NOTES TO IDYLLS OF THE KING 

178-294. 185. Camelot: see Note II. 200. changeling, a child ex- 
changed by fairies, a fairy child having been substituted for the human babe. 
202. Merlin's glamour: see Note I. 210-211. lined and rippled, from the 
carving on the keystone of the gateway's arch. 212. Lady of the Lake: see 
Note I. 219. sacred fish, an emblem adojited by the early church as a sacred 
symbol, because ixevi;, the Greek for ' lish,' is composed of the initial letters 
of the Greek words for Jesus, Christ, God, Son, Saviour. 225-226. three 
queens . . . need : see Note I. 229. dragon-boughts, coils of a dragon's 
tail. 236. an ancient man, Merlin. See 1. 202. 248. playing on him. 
The seer answers mockingly, as a rejoinder to Gareth's untruth of 1. 238. 
249-251. I have seen . . . air, a mirage. See Diet. 256. sacred mountain- 
cleft, Parnassus. See CI. M., p. 442. The fairy kings and queens thus jour- 
neying from Parnassus have been interpreted as " the old mythologies whose 
birthplace was in the East." For the whole of the ingenious explanation of 
this passage, see Littledale's Essays on Tennyson^ s Idylls of the King, pp. 88- 
89. 258. And built . . . harps. See the similar story of Thebes and Troy 
in CI. M., pp. 102, 136, 189. 271-274. like enow ... for ever. "The 
city may represent the state of spiritual and moral culture in the world during 
any epoch. Every generation has to build its own spiritual city for itself — 
the music has to be kept up." (Littledale.) 275. reverence . . . beard. 
Do not disgrace your old age by such falsehoods. The boy has no concep- 
tion of the sage's meaning. 280. Riddling of the Bards. See a similar 
' Riddling ' in Note I. 293. she nor L As Littledale remarks, " Gareth's 
grammar becomes here a little confused." What is the syntax of these 
pronouns? 

294-430. 298. did their days, left memorials of their deeds. 314. 
doom, judgments. 327. Uther : see Notes I and II. 345. barons' war : see 
Note I. 348. I held with these, took the side of the baruns. 350. Thrall'd, 
imprisoned. 355. wreak, as in the phrase " to wreak vengeance." 359. Sir 
Kay : see Note II. 362. gyve and gag. In old times scolding women were 
sometimes gagged by an iron muzzle fastened on their heads, and sent in 
fetters to the ducking-stool. 367. Aurelius Emrys : see Note II. 376. 
Mark : see Note II. 380. charlock, wild mustard. 386. cousin Tristram : 
see Note II. 387. for himself . . . state, since he (Mark) was of higher 
rank. 397. pile, a structure built into the hall upon which the shields of the 
knights were hung. 398. blazon'd, each having the knight's coat of arms 
])ainted upon it. 411. reave, despoil. 419. churl, peasant. 422. lap . . • 
lead. Sheet lead was in early times used for winding around corpses. 

431-572. So far the Idyll has been almost entirely original with the 
poet; but from now on the story follows very closely that of Malory in his 
JMorte Darlhur. 434. ashamed. ^Vhy was Gareth ashamed? 442. thine, 
z>. thy master. 444-445. as the plant . . . lichen. The lichen is here 
supposed to be a plant deadly to those other plants on which it fastens itself. 
447. brewis, broth, or bread soaked in broth. 451. Lancelot: see Note I. 
454. fluent, in its original sense ol Jlo'uitig. 465. Sir Fair-hands: see 



(JAKK'/'J/ AND LYNI'/ITJ': ^yg 

Note II. 476. broach, inoliaMy of ('L-ltic ori^^iii, — a sjiil to lioli! the meat 
for roastiiij^. 489. tarns, small mountani lakes. 490. Caer-Eryri: see 
Note II. 492. Isle Avilion : see Note II, and Passing of Arthur (427-432). 
519. Between . . . moon, i.e. at the time of full moon. 524. ragged oval, 
as a roiij^ii houndary f<jr their tournament field. 528. I leap . . . knee. 
Show what (iareth means. 540. thine, //^j' wish. 547. demand, /.f. iri'|uiry 
of Sir Kay, " him whom ye gave," ete. 559. my knighthood do the deed. 
A true knight dcjes not seek personal glory. 571. lions, the emljlems on 
Lancelot's shield. Seel. I186; oXso /.ancelul and Jilainc ((>y)). 

573-741. 580. foe within. What, according to J.ynettc, is the con- 
dition of Arthur's land? 586. best blood, sacramental wine. (jo/, or a 
holy life, or become a nun. 614. that old knight errantry. Arthur's 
knighthocjil is of a different kind from the s<jrt ridiculed by Cervantes in his 
J )on Quixote. 638. brought . . . brow. Why was Arthur displeased? 646. 
lane of access, the passageway jjetween the two rows of knights. 657. One, 
i.e. one entry; not the (jnc through which the king was accustomed to pass. 
665. maiden shield, casque. What arc these? 669. like . . . fire. Ex- 
])lain the simile. 670-673. flashed . . . fly, as some varieties of the beetle 
family, whose outer or protecting wing is dull, but whose inner wing is of 
a Jjrilliant hue. Compare with the previous simile. 688. being named, i.e^. 
being called jjy his owner before he is rearly to quit the fight. 693. hath 
past his time, is in his dotage; his brain must be turned from an old blow 
in the head. 711. that did never he, i.e. he ((jareth) never went 'against" 
the king' (710;. 717-718. Then . . . gate: cf.W. 684-6X5. 729. foul-flesh'd 
agaric in the holt, a foul-smelling mushroom in the wood. 731. shrew, a 
small ins(,<;t-caling animal. 740. slipt, dislocated. 

742-882. 742. shingle, gravel. 749. unhappiness, mischance. 751. 
loon: see note Ancient Mariner (ll). 766. beknaved, called knave. 771. 
spit. Why does Lynettc call Carcth's sword a 'spit'? 778. mere, a pool 
or lake. Discuss the simile in the following line. 791. haling, dragging. 
800. wreak'd: cf. 1. 355. 828. cate: see live of St. Agnes (173) and note. 
829. peacock. In days of chivalry, peacocks were served at table only on 
.state occasions. Littledale quotes from Stanley, respecting this dish : " Before 
it, when roasted and dressed in its plumage, and placed with grea*' pomj) and 
ceremony, as the top dish, at the most splendid feasts, all the guests, male and 
female, took a solemn vow; the knights vowing bravery, and the ladies engag- 
ing to be loving and faithful." Lynette seems to stanfl somewhat in need of 
such a vow. 839. frontless, brazen. 862. Thy pardon . . . avail. Ex- 
cuse this advice: I Ijut speak for your own good. 870. allow, put up with. 
871. stoat, a kind of brown weasel, isled, taken refuge, as on the same small 
island. 873. ruth, pity. 881-882. as . . . son, a reference to the story of 
Cinderella. 

883-998. Those who desire to read an allegory into this delightful tale 
of Careth's contests with the knights of the winding river, may be interested 
in the following suggestion by Mr. Elsdale, quoted by Littledale : "The serpent 



5 So NOTES fO IDYLLS OF THE KING 

river is the stream of time. Its three long loops, the three ages of life — 
youth, middle age, old age. The guardians of the crossings are the personi- 
fied forms of the temptations suited to these different ages." 889. Lent-lily, 
the daftoilil, blossoming about the time of Lent. Its color is bright yellow. 
900. knave, here seemingly used in its present sense of rascal. 908. 
Avanturine, a kind of quartz, glistening with scales of mica. 926. that, 
such a. 934. lightly, quickly. 939. central bridge, as in the Latin phrase 
suminus nioiis. 950. SO, if. 970. she sang. Why does Lynette sing, and 
what is the meaning of her song? 972. thou, turning from her song to ad- 
dress Gareth. 979. fool's parable, r/; 11. 618-620, 1169. 990. worry, tor- 
ment or fret. 996. worship, honor or respect. 

999-1059. 1002. the flower, the golden dandelion. 1008. brother. 
Why does the Sun mistake Gareth for his brother? marches, l)oundaries. 
1012. vizoring, covering with tlie vizor of his helmet, 1013. cipher, vacant, 
expressionless. 1033. unhappiness : see note on 1. 749. 1036. twice . . . 
on me. What does Lynette mean by this second song? What is her present 
attitude toward Gareth? Observe that she is visiting on Gareth her disgust 
at herself for becoming interested in a 'kitchen knave.' 1038. so: see note 
on 1. 950. 1048. rosemaries. It is the sweet-smelling rosemary and bay 
leaves that garnish the boar's head — not flowers. You know nothing of 
flowers. 1052. mavis; merle: see Diet. 

1060-1162. 1060. treble bow, three spans or arches. 1067. hardened 
skins, possibly typifying the unalterable habits of a lifetime. See 11. Iioo- 
1104. 1072. Thy ward, the part of the stream you should defend. For 
whom does the Evening-star mistake Ciareth, and why? 1075. disaster. 
Show force of word here by looking up derivation. 1094. drawn, with drawn 
sword. 1109. prophesied, in 1. 1077. 11 18. buoy. Of what verb is this 
the object? 1130. trefoil, clover (from Lat. tres ■\- folium, a leaf). 1141, 
mazed. The fact that you are only a knave after all, has bewildered me. 
When does Lynette find out the truth about Gareth? 1144. handle, have 
aught to do with. 1155. hern: see />/</. 

1163-1312. 1163. comb (combe), probably of Celtic origin; the head 
of a valley, surrounded by steep cliffs. 1172; 1173. vexillary; Gelt: see 
Note II. 1174-1175. Phosphorus . . . Mors, Morning Star, Midduy, Even- 
ing Star, Night, Death, — the inscriptions which the hermit ( 1 166) has carved 
upon the cliff. 11 77. running down the Soul. What is the signiticance of 
the fleeing Soul, pursued by the five emblems of Time? 1195. jarr'd. Why 
does his laughter jar upon Lynette? 1205. Out sword, for a hand-to-hand 
fight. 1211-1213. An . . . down. If some mischance, which would have 
proved false the boast of his brother-knights, had overthrown Lancelot — but 
that, of course, could never have happened, etc, 1224. knight, knave, 
prince, and fool. What is Lynette's mood, and why does she call Gareth 
this? 1264-1265. SO . • . accomplishment. What is Lynette aiming at? 
Does she wish to spare Gareth from this threatened danger, or to secure for 
him the chance of rounding out his victories? 1281. Arthur's harp, a cun- 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 58 1 

stellation of three stars forming a harp-shaped triangle, and situated near the 
Great Bear. 131 1. he, Lancelot. 

1313-1394. 1313-1314. urged . . . devisings, instructed him in the 
fine points of an encounter. 1318. Instant, earnest. 1330. marge, horizon. 
1348. fleshless laughter, a grinning skull. See 1. 624. 1364. him. To 
whom does this refer? 1386. Then . . . underground. Mr. Elsdale says, 
in his Studies in the Idylls, " Death, though apparently the most formidable 
antagonist of all, turns out to be no real foe, and his fall ushers in ' the happier 
day from underground.' " But what, in this interpretation, can be meant by 
'underground'? 1392. he, Malory in his ^/or/^ ZPar//;«r. 1394. he, Tennyson 
in his Idyll. 

LANCELOT AND ELAINE 

1-157. 2. Astolat: see Note II {Persons and Places of the Idylls). 4. 
sacred shield. The Idyll opens in the middle of the action. Lancelot has 
left his famous shield in care of the ' lily maid,' and she is guarding it as a 
sacred trust. This story of Elaine, in her world of dreams and fancies, should 
be compared with that of the I.ady of Shalott — Tennyson's first version of this 
theme. 10. their own tinct, the tint or color of the blazonings. See note 
on Gareth a7td lynette (398). of her wit, according to her own fancy. 
22, 23. Caerlyle, Caerleon, Camelot : see N(5te II. 31. diamond jousts: 
see Note III for time of these jousts. 35. Lyonesse : see Note II. 36. tarn: 
see Gareth and lynette (489). 46. aside, on each side. 50. nape, of the 
neck. 53. shingly: see note on Gareth and lynette (742). scaur, a pre- 
cipitous bank or rock. 69. queen, Guinevere, with whom Lancelot was 
secretly in love. 76. this world's hugest. It is not certain which of Arthur's 
courts was near London. 91. tale: see note on V Allegro (ffj). 94. lets, 
keeps. 118. devoir, devotion. 125. untruth, her unfaithfulness to her hus- 
band. 134. The low sun makes the color. Explain this metaphor and 
show how it applies to a Lancelot rather than to an Arthur. 

158-396. 162. downs, tracts of sandy rolling land near the sea. 171. 
wordless man. This character is original with Tennyson. 177-179. Some 
. . . them. Note the naturalness of the picture. 188. What . . . shield. 
His shield, which he has thoughtlessly brought, is known. 201. Allow him, 
excuse his seeming rudeness. 246. Had marr'd his face. In what way may 
we imagine Lancelot's sin to have left its mark upon him? 252. living soul, 
with conscience active. 263. smaller time, such as the present day. 269. 
glanc'd at, alluded to. 279. Badon hill: see Note II. 287. Glem. For 
this and the proper names of the lines following, see Battlefields of Arthur, 
Note II. 293. cuirass, a leather breastplate upon which Arthur had borne 
in this battle an image of the Virgin Mary. 295. lighten'd, flashed. 297. 
white Horse, the emblem of the Saxons. 338. rathe : see note on Lycidas 
(142). 366. who know, i.e. who know this custom of Lancelot. 382. 
twice. What were they? 396. so lived in fantasy : see 1. 27. 

397-522. 406-407. The green light . . . roofs. The green light from 



582 NOTES TO IDYLLS OF THE KING 

the meadows below were reflected on the chalky ceiling of the cave. 411. 
broke from underground: see Gareth and Lyuette (13S6). 422. Pen- 
dragon: see Note II. The hoy is realizing his life's dream. He has seen 
'one' — Lancelot ; he expects, in the tournament, to see the 'other' — Arthur, 
of mysterious birth. 429. like a rainbow. What gave the ' peopled gallery ' 
this appearance? 434-440. And from . . . work. Describe this carving, 
and explain 'ease' and 'tender.' 442. nameless King: see 1. 45. 446. 
crescent, in its radical sense from Lat. crcscerc, to increase; hence growing, 
as in strength and valor. 447. Overcome, overtop. 450. the man, Arthur. 
453. held the lists, received the attack. 480. bare, bore. Notice the force 
of the simile which follows. 507. poplar grove, near the hermit's cave. 
See 1. 409. 

523-739. 535. Gawain : see Note I. 547. carven flower : see 11. 441- 
442. 554-555. Tristram, Geraint, Gareth: see Note II. 555. there- 
withal, nevertheless. 583-585. Our . . . glory: see 11. 151-153. But who 
spoke these words? 595. this, i.e. this is ill news. 653. hern: see Ga- 
reth and Lynette (1155). 707, 713. courtesy, obedience, (.".awain, the 
courteous and easy-going, has angered the King. In Arthur's mind ' obedi- 
ence ' and not 'courtesy' is the one true law. 715. strokes of the blood, 
heart beats. 728. Marr'd . . . aim, disconcerted the 'old dame.' 

740-981. 771. I mean nothing. What (/(W he mean? 800. casque: 
see Gareth and Lynette (665). 844. twilight, half light; thus referring to 
morning as well as to evening. 857. simples, medicinal herbs. Cf. Coiiiiis 
(627). 870. straiten'd, restricted, held fast. 877. one face, of the queen. 
883. rough sickness : cf. 11. 846-850. 898. burthen, as in the phrase " the 
burden of a song." 923. that . . . yours. It is due to you that I am 
alive to hear your request. 953. realm beyond the seas. Malory says in 
his Morte Darthiir : " But to say the sooth, Sir Lancelot and his nephews 
were lords of all France, and of all the lands that longed unto France." 969. 
against me, against my nature. 977. tact, sense or feeling. 

982-1154. 995. sallow-rifted. Explain. 997. a little song. The songs 
in Tennyson's narratives (some of them among his best lyrics) always exqui- 
sitely suggest the mood of the story. Compare the songs in Gareth and Lynette 
and in the Princess. 1015. Phantom of the house. The voice of the half- 
crazed girl, heard at ' the blood-red light of dawn,' is mistaken by the brothers 
for the "banshee" of the house, — a supernatural being supposed to warn a 
family of the approaching death of one of its members, by wailing or singing, 
in a mournful voice, under the windows. 1068. Seeing . . . fault : see 
note on lady of Sha/ott (77). 1092. ghostly man, priest. 

1155-1418. 1 158. hard, hardly. Distinguish between these words. 
1 168. vibrate, betraying her secret agitation. 1170. oriel, a sort of bay 
window, summer side, the side most exposed to the sun ; i.e. the south. 
1 178. cygnet. The cygnet, or young swan, is not white, as is the full-grown 
bird. 1206. your own, i.e. your own worth. 1229. Diamonds to meet 
them. Were these reflections in the water, or drops of water splashing up? 



rilE PASSING OF ARTHUR ,583 

1253. girt, surrounded. 1256, 1257. Sir Percivale, Sir Galahad: see 
Note II. 1259-1261. Then came . . . her: see 11. 1047-1052. 1260. 
mused, as in the Lady of Slialott (168). 1265. sometime, once. 1299. Sea 
was her wrath. Explain the metaphor. 1316. worship, credit or honor. 
1319. shrine. Could this be Westminster Abi)ey, as some critics have sug- 
gested? 1346. affiance, confidence. 1354. homeless, lonely. 1368. Could 
bind, if mere deserving could compel love. 1386. 'Jealousy in love?' 
see 1. 1340. 1393. Lady of the Lake: see Note I. 1399. king's son. 
Lancelot was the son of Ban, a Celtic king whfi had aided Arthur in his early 
wars. 1415. forgotten mere : seel. 1400. 1418. holy man. After Arthur's 
death, Lancelot sought the queen, who had withdrawn to the convent at 
Almesbury. The repentant Guinevere made him promise to leave her forever; 
and this he did, retiring to the hermitage "where dwelt the Bishop of Can- 
terbury and the knight. Sir Bedivere." In the words of Malory, Book XVI, 
ch. v: "God knoweth his thought and his unstableness; and yet shall he die 
right an holy man." 

THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 

1-169. The greater part of this poem was published in 1842, under the 
title of Jl/orle cV Arthur. To this early version were afterwards prefixed one 
hundred and sixty-nine lines, and to the end were added twenty-nine. Thus 
we have the Idyll in its present form, — published as The Passing of Arthur 
in 1S69. I. Sir Bedivere: see Note I (on the story of The Coming of 
Arthttr). 6. their march. Arthur is marching westward to attack the 
traitor Modred, who has leagued himself against the King, with many of 
Arthur's former knights, and with ' the heathen of the Northern Sea.' g. 
Him, (jod. Explain Arthur's mood of hopelessness, despair, almost of doubt. 
18. Or else. In what ways does Arthur try to account for God's apparent 
desertion of him? 26. reels back into the beast, lapsing into the bariiarism 
from which he had raised it. 28. Nay ... die : see Note I. 30. Gawain : 
see Note I. 31. Lancelot's war. After the discovery of Lancelot's treachery, 
the King made war ugainst him. Gawain, aiding Arthur, received a mortal 
wound at the hands of Lancelot. 35. isle of rest: see Avilion, in Note 11. 
56. Light was Gawain in life. For Sir Gawain's character, see Note I, and 
lancelol and Elaine, 1. 557, and following. 59. Modred: see Note I, and 
note to 1. 6, above. 68-69. And brake . . . wall: see Note I. 77. One 
. . . Almesbury: see Note II. The reference is to Guinevere, — 

" And while she grovell'd at his feet, 
She felt the King's breath wander o'er her neck, 
And in the darkness o'er her fallen head 
Perceived the waving of his hands that blest." 

Guinevere (577-580) . 

81. Lyonesse: see Note II. 90-91. that day . . . year. What day must 
this have been? 117. voices of the dead. Explain. The description of this 



584 NOTES TO IDYLLS OF THE KING 

battle is weird but splendid. Contrast with the picture of the silent battle- 
field in the lines following. 135. voice, the sound of the ocean; referred to 
again in 11. 139-141. 148. so, if. 160. purport, the ideals for which it has 
existed. 161. quick, as in the Biblical expression, " the quick and the dead." 
See DicL 168. Excalibur: see Note I. 

170-440. These were the lines which originally formed the poem Morte 
d'Ai-thiir. 177. chancel : see /)?■<:/■. 180. a great water. What was this? 
182. unsolder, breaks apart. 189. Camelot : see Note II. 191. Merlin: 
see Note I. 198, 199. Rose . . . lake. Clothed . . . wonderful: see these 
lines in Note I. 206. lightly, quickly. 224. haft : see Did. Also see 
description of this brand in Note I. 228. This . . . mind, a line taken 
from the ^neid. 248. lief, beloved. 262. obedience . . . rule : see note 
on Lancelot and Elaine (707, 713). Why was Bedivere so loath to throw the 
sword away? 272. Maiden of the Lake: see Note I. 284-285. I heard 
. . . reeds : cf. 11. 238-239. These repetitions are similar to those found in 
the epics of Homer. Malory uses them as well as Tennyson. 289. Authority 
. . . king, i.e. the king loses his authority. 307. northern morn, the 
Aurora Borealis. 308. isles of winter, icebergs. 312. Clothed . . . won- 
derful: f/ 1. 199 and note. 337. blue eyes : see Note I. 350. Clothed . . . 
breath, the vapor of his breath, condensed in the cold air. 366. Three 
queens: see 11. 452-456; also Note I. 377. casque : see Z??V/. 383. greaves 
and cuisses: see Did. 384. light and lustrous curls: see Note I. 401. 
Holy Elders, the three "wise men of the East." See Matthezv ii. 1-12. 403. 
image . . . world. According to Malory, the Round Table was intended to 
typify " the roundness of the world." 408. The old . . . new : see this line 
in Note I. 427. Avilion : see Note II. 434-435. swan . . . carol : see 
note on Rape of the Lock (262-263). 

441-469. These lines were added for the volume of 1870 as a conclusion 
to the Idylls. 445. From . . . goes : see this line in Merlin's ' riddling triplets,' 
Note I. 469. And . . . year. Notice the quiet ending, producing the effect, 
" all passion spent," suitable to the close of the epic poem. (See INTRODUC- 
TION, p. xcv.) And discuss, on the basis of the idylls and ballads so far read, 
the nature of the idyllic, ballad, and epic forms of poetry. (See Introduc- 
tion, pp. xcii, xciv, ci.) 



INDEX 



In the following Index the Roman numerals refer to the Introduction, — the Principles of 
Poetry; the Arabic numerals refer chiefly to the pages on the Progress of Poetry, — its 
evolution, history, and the lives and works of English poets. The names of authors who are 
treated at length in this volume aie printed in SiMall capitals; titles of poems treated at 
length are printed in bold-face type; while the names of important titles mentioned in the 
book are indicated by italics. A liberal system of cross references in the Notes has rendered 
any detailed indexing of notes unnecessary. 



Absalom and Achitopkel, 102, 103 

Accent : see Stress ; hovering and 
wrenched, Ixvi ; spondaic and de- 
ferred, Ixvi 

Acephalous verse, Ixviii 

Action, the poetry of, drama, xcviii-ci 

Addison, criticism on The Rape of the 
Lock, 114 

Adonais, 220 

Aineid, Surrey's translation, 37; Dry- 
den's translation, 103 

Esthetic emotions, the gradation of, ex 

j^stheticism, in poetry, cv-cvi 

/Esthetic Transition, a poet of the, 230; 
relation to the development of English 
poetry, 230 

Alcaics, Ixxxii, Ixxxiv 

Alexander's Feast, text of, 103-109 ; 
circumstances of composition, 496-497; 
criticism of, 497; notes on, 497-499; 
sound quality in, Ixxii ; as an ode, 
Ixxxv 

Alexandrine, the, Ivi, Ixxxiii 

Allegory, the, xcvi 

Allegro, L', text of, 54-58 ; criticism of, 
463; notes on, 464-467; as a reflec- 
tive poem, xcvii 

Alliteration, Ixxvii-lxxviii 

Amphibrach, li, liv 

Anacrusis, Ixvii 

Anapest, li, lii-liii 

Ancient Mariner, The Rime of the, text 
of, 180-200; circumstances of com- 
position, 525-527 ; versification of, 527 ; 
notes on, 527-532; a part of the Lyri- 



cal Ballads, 163 ; sound quality in, 
Ixx; stanzaic structure of, Ixxxi, Ixxxii 

Andrea Del Sarto, text of, 301-308 ; 
story of, 556-557 ; circumstances of 
composition, 557; notes on, 557-559; 
as a dramatic monologue, ci 

Anglo-Saxon, element in English lan- 
guage, 3 

Anglo-Saxons, conquest of Britain, 1-2; 
christianized, 2 

Anticlimax, xlii, xlix 

Anti-pagon, liv 

Antithesis, xlii, xlix 

Apocope, Ixviii 

Aposiopesis, xlii, xlix 

Apostrophe, xlv 

Architecture, xxix, xxxv, xxxvi 

Areopagitica, 53 

Aristotle, on the drama, c 

Arnold, Dr. Thomas, 163, 318, 563 

Arnold, Matthew, comparison with 
Macaulay, 316; criticism of, 316-317; 
life of, 317-318; works of, 317-318. 
For poems, — The Forsaken Meriiiafi, 
Rugby Chapel, Dover Beach, and AV- 
quiescat, see titles tmder this index 

Arnold's test for high poetic quality, — 
its basis and value, cvi-cviii 

Art, and nature, xxv-xxvi ; an inter- 
preter, communicator, and mediator, 
XXX ; Goethe's definition of, xli ; modi- 
fies nature, xxvi-xxvii ; by rhythm, 
xxvii; and imitation, xxvii; social 
value of, xxx-xxxi ; the grades of, 
xxxii ; structural, xxxii-xxxiii ; pre- 



585 



586 



INDEX 



sentative, xxxiii-xxxiv; representative, 
xxxiv ; interpretative, xxxv ; creative, 

XXXV 

Artist, the purposes of, — craftsman, 

seer, creator, xxxii 
Arts, the classification of, xxxv-xxxvi 
Association, images of, xlii 
Assonance, Ixxviii-lxxix 

Balance, xlii, xlix 

Balaustion's Adventure, 296 

Balder Dead, 317 

Ballad, description of the, xcii-xciv, cii ; 
form of stanza, 527 ; memory images 
in, xliii 

Ballade, the, Ixxxiii, Ixxxix-xci 

Ballads, the early, growth of, 35 ; influ- 
ence of, 35 

Battle of Lake Regillus, The, 253 

Battle of Nascby, The, 253 

Belles lettres, xxxvii, xl 

Bells and Pomegranates, 295 

Beowulf, 2, xciv 

Biglow Papers, the, 333 

Biographla Literaria, 180 

Blank verse, introduction into England, 
37 ; epic and dramatic, 37, Ix ; of Mil- 
ton, 37, 551; of Tennyson, 550, 551; 
elocutionary pause in, Ix; metrical 
pause in, Ixi ; phrasal pause in, Ixi ; 
variety of movement in, Ixiii-lxiv; 
variety of stress in, Ixiv-lxvi ; number 
of syllables in, Ixvi-lxviii 

Blot i' the 'Scutcheon, 295, 296 

Boccaccio, 5 

Boke of the Duchesse, 6 

Bonnivard, "the prisoner of Chillon," 

533-535 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 252, 295- 
296 

Brownino, Robert, comparison with 
Tennyson, 294; criticism of, 294-295; 
life of, 295-296; works of, 295-296. 
For poems, — Home Thoughts from 
Abroad, Home Thoughts from the Sea, 
Evelyn Hope, My Last Duchess, An- 
drea del Sarto, Rabbi Ben Ezra, and 
the Epilogue to Asolando, see titles 
under this index 

Brut, Layamon's, 331 



Bunner, H. C, his use of the triolet, 
Ixxxviii 

Bunyan, John, 51, xcvi 

Burlesque, the, in drama, c 

Burns, Robert, position among eigh- 
teenth-century poets, 126; criticism 
of, 145-146 ; characteristics of, 145 ; 
life of, 146 ; works of, 147 ; dialect of, 
5, 145 ; as a presentative poet, xxxiv. 
For poems, — The Cotter's Saturday 
Night and Tarn 0' Shanter, see titles 
under this index 

Byron, George Gordon, Lord, com- 
parison with Shelley, 201 ; reputation 
abroad, 201-202; reputation in Eng- 
land, 202 ; criticism of, 202 ; life of, 
202-203 ! works of, 202-204 i li's use 
of the ottava rima, Ixxxii. For poems, 
— The Prisoner of Chillon, the Sonnet 
on Cy/Z/Zc//, and the stanzas from Childe 
Harold's Pilgrimage, see titles under 
this index 

Ccedmon's Paraphrase, 2 

Caesura, break or pause, the, Ixi, Ixii ; in 

the hexameter, Ixi-lxii ; in blank verse, 

Ixii-lxiii 
Cambridge, in relation to English poetry 

and poets, 5, 34, 39, 53, 102, 127, 163, 

179, 203, 254, 275, 472, 473 
Canterbury Tales, The, 7 
Caprice, the play of, xcix 
Carlyle's judgment of Shakespeare, 38 
Catalectic verse, Ixviii 
Caxton, William, 35 
Celtic element in English language, i ; 

influence on English literature, i, 4, 

330; story in English literature, 330 
Celts, early occupation of Britain, i ; 

present home, 2, 4 
Cenci, The, 220 
Chant-royal, Ixxxix 
Chapman, his translation of Homer, 545 ; 

his septenaries, Ixxxi 
Chaucer, Geoffrey, his position in 

English poetry, 5; criticism of, 6; life 

of, 6-7 ; works of, 7 ; his language, 34 ; 

imitators of, 34; early editions of, 35 ; 

versification of, 442, Ixiv; his use of 

rhyme-royal, Ixxxii ; as a representa- 



INDEX 



587 



five poet, xxxiv ; pronunciation in, 
441-442, 443. For his Prologue to the 
Canterbury Tales, see title under this 
index 

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, stanzas 
from, text of, 216-218; remarks on, 
201-202, 535 ; sound quality in, Ixxiii, 
Ixxiv; as a reflective poem, xcvii; 
' touchstones ' in, cvii 

Chivalry, poetry of, origin and history, 
330-331 ; legends of the Round Table, 
331; Idylls of the King, 331; The 
Vision of Sir Launfal, 331-332 

Choral, the, xci, xcvii, cii 

Choriambics, Ixxxiv 

Choriambus, li 

Chorus, the, Ixxix 

Christabel, 179 

Christmas Eve, 296 

Classical school of poetry, its charac- 
teristics, no, 505; contrast vt^ith Ro- 
manticism, 160; its heroic couplet, 
iio-iii; influence of Pope on, in; 
aims and influence, in; loss of pres- 
tige, 112 

Classical stanzas, imitations of, Ixxxi 

Classic, meaning of, civ 

Classics, the, why so called, civ-cv; re- 
vival of the ancient, 34 

Climax, xlii, xlix; the, in drama, c 

Cloud, The, text of, 226-228; circum- 
stances of composition, 537 ; notes on, 
537-538 ; as a lyric, xcvii 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, charac- 
teristics of, 178 ; criticism of, 178-179 ; 
life of, 179-180; works of, 180; con- 
nection with the Lyrical Ballads, 160 ; 
his account of the composition of 
The Ancient Mariner, 525-526. For 
The Ancient Mariner, see title under 
this index 

Comedy, the, of character, manners, sit- 
uation, xcix 

Coining of Arthur, The, story of, 571-574 

Co7nmemoration Ode, 334, Ixxxv 

Common Measure (CM.). Ixxxi 

Common Metre (CM.), Iv 

Communal poetry, xci, xcvii 

Compensation, metrical and elocution- 
ary : see Pause 



Compleynte unto Pitie, 6 

Complication, the, in drama, c 

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, 
text of, 176; notes on, 524 

Comus, text of, 69-98; discussion of 
masque, 477 ; circumstances of com- 
position, 477-478; scenes of, 478; 
notes on, 478-494; as a masque, c; 
blank verse in, Ixii ; 'touchstones' in, 
cvii ; source of poem's beauty, ex 

Connection, images of, xlii 

Consonants, their tonality, Ixx; voiced 
and breath, hard and soft, Ixx; ex- 
plosive and prolonged, Ixxi 

Contiguity, figures of, xlvi 

Contrast, images of, xlii, xlvi 

Conventional school : see Classical 
school 

Cotter's Saturday Night, The, text of, 
147-153; criticism of, 512; notes on, 
512-514; stanzaic structure of, Ixxxiii ; 
as an idyll, cii 

Cowper, William, 126, 160 

Crabbe, George, 126, 160, 162 

Created image, the, xliii-xliv 

Creative expression, the, xxxix-1 

Crisis, the, in drama, c-ci 

Criticism, the terms and laws of, as ap- 
plied to poetry, ciii-cxi 

Crossing the Bar, text of, 293-294 ; criti- 
cism of, 554 ; circumstances of com- 
position, 554 

Dactyl, li, liii 

Defense for the English People, 53 

Denouement, in comedy, ci 

Descriptive poetry, xcvi 

Deserted Village, The, text of, 133-145 ; 

criticism of, 507 ; notes on, 507-512 
Diaeresis, Ixviii 
Didactic verse, cii-ciii 
Dimeter, liv-lv 
Dobson, Austin, his use of the rondeau, 

Ixxxvii ; of the rondel, Ixxxviii ; of the 

villanelle, Ixxxix; of the ballade, xc ; 

of the pantoun, xci 
Don Juan, 202-203; stanzaic structure 

of, Ixxxii-lxxxiii 
Dover Beach, text of, 328-329 ; criticism 

of, 564; notes on, 565 



588 



INDEX 



Drama, xxxvi ; its development in Eng- 
land, 38, its temporary decline, 52; its 
revival, loi ; subdivisions of, xcviii-ci ; 
definition and characteristics, xcviii, 
xcix ; technique of, c-ci ; tragedy, 
xcviii-ci ; comedy, the, of character, 
manners, situation, xcix; teclmique 
of, ci 

Dramatic blank verse, 37 

Dramatic Lyrics, 295 

Dramatic Monologue, the, 555, ci-cii 

Dramatic technique, c-ci 

Dramatis PersoncB, 296 

Dryden, John, criticism of, 101-102; 
life of, 102-103 ; works of, 103 ; as a 
dramatist, 102; his heroic couplets, 
102 ; as a critic, 102 ; as a prose writer, 
102. For his Alexander's Feast, see 
title under this index 

Dunciad, The, 113 

Easter Day, 296 

East Midland English, 5, 34 

Ecphonesis : see Exclamation 

Edinburgh Revieiu, 203, 254 

Elegiac verse, Iviii 

Elegy, the, characteristics of, xcviii 

Elegy written in a Country Church- 
yard, text of, 128-132; criticism of, 
504-505; notes on, 505-507; stanzaic 
structure of, Ixxx ; as an elegy, xcviii 

Elision, Ixviii ; in Chaucer, 8 

Elizabethan Age, 37-38 ; its characteris- 
tics, 37, 38 ; development of its drama, 
38 ; its lyric poetry, 38 

Elocutionary pause, lix-lxi 

Emotions, the real and the aesthetic, 
poetry judged as affecting, cix-cx 

Empedocles on Etna, 317 

End-rhyme, Ixxvi-lxxvii 

English language, a composite, 4; early 
development, 5; early dialects, 5; 
later development, 3 (footnote) 

English verse, by stress, li-lii 

Enjambement, Ixiv ; in the sonnet, 
Ixxxvi 

Epic blank verse, 37 

Epic caesura, the, Ixii, Ixvii 

Epic, growth and characteristics of, xciv- 
xcvi 



Epilogue to Asolando, text of, 315-316; 

remarks on, 562 
Epithalamion, 40 
Erotesis : see Interrogation 
Essay on Criticism, 113 
Essay on Man, in, 113 
Euphemism, xliii, xlix 
Evelyn Hope, text of, 298-299 ; remarks 

on, 555; notes on, 555 
Eve of St. Agnes, The, text of, 232-444; 

tradition underlying, 538 ; notes on, 

539-542 ; stanzaic structure of, Ixxxiii ; 

as a metrical romance, xcvi 
Exclamation, xlii, xlix 
Excursion, The, 163 

Fable for Critics, A, 333 

Fables, Dryden's, 103 

Faerie Queene, Stanzas from, text of, 41- 
47 ; plot of, 459-460 ; plot of first canto, 
46-47; metrical system of, 460; notes 
on, 460-462; stanzaic structure of, 
Ixxxiii 

Fancy and Imagination, xlvi-xlvii 

Farce, the, characteristics of, c 

Feminine ccesura, the, Ixii 

F'eminine ending, the, Ixvii 

Feminine rhyme, the, Ixxvii 

Ferrex and Porrex, metre of, 37 

Fifteenth Century, the, characteristics of, 

34-35 
Figures, the kinds of, xlii-xliii ; poetic, 

xliii-xlvii ; mock-logical, xlvii-xlix; 

rhetorical, xlix-1 
Final suspense, the moment of, in drama, 

ci 
Fitzgerald, Edward, quatrain of the 

Rubaiyat, Ixxxi 
Fixed forms of verse with refrain, Ixxxvii- 

xci 
Foot, the, by stress and by time, li-lii ; 

kinds of, in English, lii-liv; kinds of, 

in Greek and Latin, li 
Forsaken Merman, The, text of, 318- 

322 ; criticism of, 562 ; notes on, 562- 

563 
Four-line stanzas, Ixxx-lxxxii 
" Fourteener," the, Ixxxvii 
Fourteenth century, characteristics of the, 

5-6 



INDEX 



589 



Franks, influence on the language of 

Gaul, 2, 3 
French critical school, its characteristics, 

loi, no ; service to English poetry, loi 
French influence on English literature, 

35, loi, 108, 109 
French Revolution, the, 163, 201 
Freytag, the technique of the drama, c-ci 

Gareth and Lynette, text of, 347-388; 
notes on, 577-581 

Gaul (France), history of language, 2 

Geoffrey of Monmouth, 330 

Gest, the, xciii, xciv 

Goethe, his estimate of Byron, 201 ; his 
definition of art, xli 

Goldsmith, Oliver, position among 
eighteenth-century poets, 125 ; criticism 
of, 132 ; life of, 132-133 ; characteristics 
of, 133 ; works of, 133. For his Deserted 
Village, see title under this index 

Gosse, Edmund, his terza rima, Ixxx 

Gower, John, 6 

Gray, Thomas, criticism of, 126; life 
of, 126-127; works of, 127. For his 
Elegy ■written i?i a Country Church- 
yard, see title under this index 

Greek art and literature, its influence on 
Keats, 231, 543, 544 

Greek verse, by quantity, li 

Harmony in verse; rhyme, Ixxvi-lxxix 

Hendecasyllables, Iv-lvi 

Heroic couplet, the, 102, iio-iii, Iv, Ixiv 

Heroic poem, the, xcv 

Hero-saga, the origins of, xciii 

Hexameter, liv, Ivi-lviii, Ixii 

Hind and the Panther, The, 102 

Historia Regum BritattnicB, 330 

Home Thoughts, from Abroad, text of, 
297; criticism of, 554; notes on, 554 

Home Thoughts, from the Sea, text of, 
297; remarks on, 554; notes on, 555 

Horatius, text of, 254-274; remarks on, 
545-546; notes on, 546-549; memory 
images of, xliii ; sound quality of, Ixx- 
Ixxxi ; stanzaic structure of, Ixxxii 

Hous of Fame, 7 

Hunt, Leigh, friendship with Keats, 231, 
545 



Hymn before Sunrise, iSo 
Hymn on the Nativity, 53 
Hyperbole, xliii, xlvii-xlviii 
Hypercatalectic verse, Ixvii 
Hyperion, 232 

Iamb, li, lii 

Idealism, idealistic, meaning of the terms, 
cv-cvi 

Idyll, kinds and characteristics of the, 
ci-cii 

Idylls of the King, origin of, 35; signifi- 
cance of, 346 ; criticism of, 346 ; history 
of, 346 ; li%t and dates of, 347 ; kind of 
epic, xciv, cii ; story of The Coming 
of Arthur, 571-574 ; persons and places 
of the, 574-576; time occupied by the, 
576 ; chief events narrated in the, 576 ; 
poetical nature and form of, 577. For 
the three idylls of this book, — Gareth 
and Lynette, Lancelot and Elaine, and 
The Passing of Arthur, see titles under 
this index 

Iliad, Pope's translation of, 113; Chap- 
man's translation of, 231, 544, Ixxxi 

Images, the image-making process, xli; 
primary and created, xli-xliv; of the 
memory, xli-xlii 

Imagination and fancy, xlvi-xlvii 

Imagination, the process of, xli; repro- 
ductive, xlii 

Imitation, a mode, xxxi-xxxii ; the 
mother of imagination, xxxii 

InitiaTrhyme, Ixxvii-lxxviii 

In Memoriam, 220; stanzaic structure of, 
Ixxxi ; as an elegy, xcviii 

Innuendo, xliii, xlviii 

Internal, or involved rhyme, Ixxvii 

Interrogation, xlii, xlix 

Inversion, xlii 

Irony, xliii, xlix 

Italian influence on English liierature, 

5. 35. loi 
It is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and 

Free, text of, 177 ; notes on, 524 
Ivry, 253, 254 • 

Johnson, Dr. Samuel, 112, 125, 133 

Jonson, Ben, 38, 51 

Judgment, the, of poetry, civ-cxi 



590 



INDEX 



Keats, John, criticism of, 231; life of, 
231-232; works of, 232; influence of 
Greek art upon, 231, 543, 544. For his 
poems, — The Eve of St. Agnes, Ode 
to a Nightingale, Ode on a Grecian 
Urn, La Belle Dame sans Merci, and 
the sonnets. On First Looking into 
Chapman's Homer and On the Grass- 
hopper and Cricket, see titles under 
this index 

Kubla Khan, 179 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci, text of, 
249-251 ; criticism of, 544^ 

Lady of Shalott, The, text of, 284-289; 
remarks on, 552; notes on, 552; as a 
forerunner of the Idylls, 346 

Lady of the Lake, The, 161 ; as a metrical 
romance, xcvi 

Lancelot and Elaine, text of, 388-427; 
notes on, 581-583 

Lang, Andrew, his use of the ballade, xc 

Langland, William, 5-6 

Laodamia, 163 

Latin, element of, in English language, i, 
2, 3 ; element of, in early English litera- 
ture, 3 (footnote) ; element in lan- 
guage of Gaul, 2 

Latin verse, by quantity, li 

Lawes, Henry, a friend of Milton, 477- 
478, et seq. 

Layamon, 331 

Lay of the Last Minstrel, The, 160 

Lays of Ancient Rome, 253, 254, 316 

Legende of Good Women, 7 

Lint of s Miscellany, 114 

Literature, in general, xxxvi-xxxviii ; 
practical, xxxvii ; belles lettres, xxxvii ; 
pure or creative, xxxvii-xxxviii 

Litotes, xlviii 

Logical artifice, figures of, xliii, xlvii-xlix 

London, 1802 ( To Milton) , text of, 176 ; 
notes on, 524 

Long Measure (L.M.), Ixxxi 

Lowell, James Russell, comparison 
with Arnold, 332; criticism of, 332- 
333 ; life of, 333-334 ; career as diplo- 
mat, 334; woiks of, 333-335. For his 
Vision of Sir Launfal, see title under 
this index 



Lycidas, text of, 63-68 ; discussion of, 
472; notes on, 472-477; as an elegy, 
xcviii ; sound quality in, Ixxi, Ixxii, 
Ixxiv 

Lyrical Ballads, 160, 161, 163, 517, 527 

Lyric caesura, the, Ixiii 

Lyric, growth and characteristics of the, 
xcvii-xcviii ; kinds of, xcviii 

Lyrics, of Browning, 295, 555 ; of Burns, 
147; of Byron, 204; of Elizabethan 
age, 38; of Shelley, xcvii, 220; of 
Wordsworth, 163-164 

Macaulay, Thomas Babington, criti- 
cism of, 253 ; life of, 253-254 ; works of, 
253, 254 ; public service of, 254. Yox 
his Horatius, see title under this index 

MacFlecknoe, 102 

Malory, Sir Thomas, 35, 331, 346 

Manfred, 204 

Manner, the, of a poem, — classical or 
romantic, civ 

Map, Walter, 331 

Marlowe, Christopher, 37, 38 

Masculine caesura, the, Ixii 

Masculine rhyme, Ixxvii 

Masque, description of, 477 ; form and 
character of, c 

Mazeppa, 202 

Medal, The, 102 

Melodrama, the place of, c 

Melody, the, of word sounds, Ixviii- 
Ixxv 

Memory image, the, in poetry, xlii-xliii 

Memory, the, xlii 

Men and Women, 296 

Metaphor, xliv 

Metonymy, xlvi 

Metre, liv-lxviii; kinds of, Iv; how va- 
ried, Iviii-lxiv 

Metrical pause, lix-lxiv 

Metrical romance, the, xcvi 

Milton, John, criticism of, 52, 54 ; life 
of, 53-54 ; early lyrics of, 53 ; sonnets 
of, 53; prose essays of, 53; political 
life, 54 ; epics of, 54. For his poems, 
— L Allegro, II Penseroso, Lycidas, 
Conius, and the sonnets, On his hav- 
ing arrived at the Age of Twenty-three, 
To the Lord General Cromwell, On 



INDEX 



591 



his Blindness, and To Mr. Cyriac 

Skinner, see titles under this index 
Mock-heroic poem, the, xcv, 499 
Moments, dramatic, c-ci 
Monometer, liv-lv 
Morris, William, 230, 252 
A forte Darthur, 35, 331 
Morte d' Arthur, 346 
Movement, the, of blank verse, Ixii-lxiv 
My Last Duchess, text of, 300-301 ; as 

a dramatic monologue, 555, ci ; story 

of, 556; notes on, 556 
Music, xxxiii, xxxv, xxxvi 
Music of the spheres, 468, 480 

Nature and art, xxv-xxxii 

New Romantic poetry, the, its charac- 
teristics, 160; comparison with the 
Classical school, 160 

Norman-French, conquest of England, 
3 ; element in English language, 3 

Northmen, attacks upon Britain, 2; con- 
quest of Gaul, 2 

Occasional poem, the, 499 
Octave of the Sonnet, Ixxxvi 
Ode, Ixxxv 

Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton Col- 
lege, 127 
Ode on a Grecian Urn, text of, 247-249 ; 

remarks on, 543; notes on, 543-544 
Ode on Intimations of Immortality, text 

of, 168-174; underlying thought of, 

519-520; notes on, 520-522; as an 

ode, Ixxxv; as a lyric, xcvii 
Ode to a Nightingale, text of, 245-247 ; 

circumstances of composition, 542; 

notes on, 542-543 
Ode to Duty, text of, 174-176; criticism 

of, 523 ; notes on, 523 ; as a lyric, xcvii 
Ode to Liberty, 220 
Ode to Spring, 127 
Ode to the West Wind, text of, 220-223 ; 

circumstances of composition, 535; 

notes on, 535-536 ; stanzaic structure 

of, Ixxx 
Odyssey, Pope's translation of, 113 
CEnone, text of, 276-284 ; myth of, 550 ; 

circumstances of composition, 550; 

notes on, 550-551 



On first looking into Chapman's Homer, 

231, Ixxxvi ; text of, 251 ; circumstances 
of composition, 544-545 ; notes on, 545 

On his Blindness, Ixxxvi; text of, 99; 
circumstances of composition, 495; 
notes on, 496 

On his having arrived at the Age of 
Twenty-three, text of, 98 ; circum- 
stances of composition, 494 ; notes on, 

495 

Onomatopoeia, Ixix 

Onomatopoetic effects in poetry, 497 

On the Grasshopper and Cricket, Ixxxvi ; 
text of, 251 ; circumstances of compo- 
sition, 545; remarks on, 545 

Origins of the English language, 1-4 

Ottava rima, Ixxxii 

Oxford, in relation to English poetry and 
poets, 5, 34, 219, 317 

Oxymoron, xliii, xlix 

Pason, li, lii, liv 

Painting, xxix, xxxiv, xxxv, xxxvi 

Pantoum, Ixxxix, xci 

Paracelsus, 295, 296 

Paradise Lost, xciv, xcv, 54 

Paradise Regained, 54 

Parallelism, xlix 

Passing of Arthur, The, text of, 427- 
440; notes on, 583-5S4; sound qual- 
ity in, Ixxii ; alliteration in, Ixxviii; 
assonance in, Ixxix; ' touchstones ' in, 
cviii ; first form of, 346 

Pastoral, the, cii 

Pathetic fallacy, the, xxxiv. 

Pauline, 295 

Pause, varieties of, lix; metrical, lix ; 
elocutionary, lix ; phrasal, lix 

Penseroso, II, text of, 58-63 ; criticism 
of, 463; notes on, 467-472; sound 
quality in, Ixxii, Ixxiv, Ixxv; as a re- 
flective poem, xcvii 

Pentameter, liv, Iv 

Perception, the, xli 

Percy's, Bishop, Reliques of A?icienl 
Poetry, 125 

Personification, Ixv 

Petrarch, 5 

Phalsecian verse, Ivi 

Philosophical verse, cii-ciii 



592 



INDEX 



Phrasal pause, or caesura, Ixi-lxiii 

Pindaric Ode, the, Ixxxv 

Fippa Passes, 295 

Pitch, its contribution to verse-melody, 
Ixxv-lxxvi 

Plot, in drama, c-ci 

Poetic diction, xl-xli 

Poetic figures, the, xliii-xlvii 

Poetic justice, xcix 

Poetic quality, Arnold's test of, cvi-cviii. 
and its value, cvi-cviii 

Poetry, xxxiv, xxxv, xxxviii-xxxix, ef 
passim; beginnings of, xci ; choral, 
xci ; critical terms of, ciii-cxi ; defini- 
tion of, xxxix ; judgment of, the, ciii- 
cxi ; kinds of, xci-ciii ; poetry of re- 
cital, — ballad, epic, etc., xcii-xcvi; 
descriptive and reflective, xcvi ; poetry 
of song, — the lyric, xcvii-xcviii ; 
poetry of action, — the drama, xcviii- 
cl; mixed kinds, — idyll, pastoral, etc., 
ci-cii; kinds on the border of the 
practical, — satirical, didactic, etc., cii- 
ciii ; principles of, xxv-cxi 

Pope, Alexander, influence of, iii ; 
service to English poetry, iii; criti- 
cism of, 112; life of, 112-113; works 
of, 113-115. For his Rape of the Lock, 
see title under this index 

Pre-Elizabethan Era, the, 36-37 

Prelude, The, 163 

Printing press, invention of, 35 ; intro- 
duction into England, 35, 331 

Prisoner of Chillon, The, text of, 204- 
215; circuaistances of composition, 
532-533; identity of, 533, 535; notes 
on, 533-534 

Prolepsis, xliii, xlvi 

Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, text 
of, 8-33; list of tales, 459; metrical 
system of, 442; notes on, 441-459; as 
a tale, xcvi 

Prometheus, 202 

Prometheus Unbound, 220 

Prophecy of Capys, The, 253 

Prose, an instrument of literature, xxxviii ; 
compared with verse, xxxix; rhythm 
of, 1-li ; feet in, Ixiii-lxiv 

Prothalamion, 39 

Psalm, the, xcii 



Puritan influence on English literature, 
period of, 51-52; extent of, 51-52; 
limits of, 51 ; characteristics of, 51-52; 
decline of, 100 

Pyrrhic, li, liv 

Quality of word-sounds, tone-color : see 

Tonality 
Quantity in verse, li, et seq. 
Quatrain, the, Ixxx-lxxxii 
Quatrains, some varieties of, Ixxx-lxxxii 

Rabbi Ben Ezra, text of, 308-315; the 
man, 559; criticism of, 559; notes 
on, 559-561 ; as a reflective poem, 
xcvii 

Raleigh, Sir Walter, influence on Spen- 
ser, 39 

Rape of the Lock, The, discussion of, 
113-115; comparison of editions, 114- 
115 ; text of, 1 15-124; circumstances of 
composition, 499; notes on, 499-504; 
as a mock-heroic poem, xcv-xcvi ; as 
a satire, ciii 

Reaction from Classical school, nature 
of, 124; first phase of, 125; second 
phase of, 125-126 

Realism, realistic, meaning of the terms, 
cv-cvi 

Recital, poetry of, xcii-xcvii 

Reflective poetry, xcvi-xcvii 

Refrain, the, Ixxix 

Reliqucs of Ancient Poetry, 125 

Renaissance in England, 34, 36 

Repetition, xlii, xlix 

Requiescat, text of, 329-330; remarks 
on, 565 

Resemblance and Contrast, figures of, 
xliv-xlvi 

Reseniblance, images of, xlii 

Restoration, Age of the, characteristics 
of, loo-ioi ; morals of, loi ; literary 
taste of, 10 1 

Revolution, French, influence on English 
poets, 163, 201 

Revolution, the, in plot, c 

Rhetorical figures, xlii, xlix-1 ; of the emo- 
tional kind, xlix-1 ; of the ordering 
kind, 1 

Rhyme, conditions necessary to, Ixxvi ; 



INDEX 



593 



definition and kinds of, Ixxvi-lxxix; 
masculine, Ixxvii; feminine, Ixxvii ; re- 
lation to harmony and melody in verse, 
Ixxvi-lxxix 

Rhyme-royal, Ixxxii 

Rhythm, — a mode of nature and art, 
xxvii-xxviii ; a principle, xxix ; in verse, 
— origin, 1; in prose, 1-li ; in relation 
to the material, Ixviii-lxix 

Rime of the Ancient Alariner : see An- 
cient Mariner 

Ring- and the Book, The, 296 

Romans, early conquests, of Britain, i ; 
of Gaul, 2 

Romantic play, the, xcix 

Romantic poetry, meaning of, civ; the 
new, 160-161 

Rondeau, Ixxxvii 

Rondel, Ixxxviii 

Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, 230, 252 

Rubaiyat, quatrains of the, Ixxxi 

Rugby Chapel, text of, 322-328 ; basis of 
poem, 563; notes on, 563-564; asso- 
nance in, Ixxix ; as an elegy, xcviii 

Sackville, 37 

Samson Agonistes, 54 

Sapphics and Adonics, Ixxxiii 

Satirical verse, ciii 

Saul, 294, 296 

Saxons, West, language of, 2 

Scholar Gipsy, The, 317 

Scholasticism of Middle Ages, 34 

Scorn not the Sonnet, text of, 178 ; notes 
on, 525 

Scotch, Lowland, identical with North- 
ern English dialect, 5 

Scottish universities, rise of, 34 

Scott, Sir Walter, his Lay of the Last 
Minstrel, 160; his relation to his time, 
161 ; criticism of, 161 

Sculpture, xxix, xxxv, xxxvi 

Senarius, Ivi 

Sensations, the, xli 

Senses, the, appeal of poetry to, xxxvi, 
xlii, cix 

Sentimental, the, in poetry, cv-cvi 

Septenarius, septenary, Ivi, Ixxxi 

Serious play, the, xcix 

Sestet in sonnet, Ixxxvi 



Shakespeare William, his position 
in English literature, 37, 48 ; metre of 
his plays, 37 ; his sonnets, Ixxxvii, 462 ; 
a creative and interpretative poet, 
xxxiv, xxxv. For examples of his son- 
nets, see Sonnets of Shakespeare under 
this index 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe, comparison 
with Byron, 201 ; criticism of, 218-219 '< 
life of, 219-220 ; works of, 220 ; a pre- 
sentative poet, xxxiv. For poems, Ode 
to the West Wind, To a Skylark, The 
Cloud, and To Night, see titles under 
this index 

She Stoops to Conquer, 133 

Short Measure (S.M.), Ixxxi 

Similarity, images of, xlii 

Simile, xliv-xlv 

Slurring, Ixviii 

Social Revolt, poets of, 200-201 ; relation 
to revolutionary spirit, 201 ; compari- 
son of Byron and Shelley, 201 

Sohrab and Rustutn, 317 

Solution, the, in Drama, c 

Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 497, Ixxii, 
Ixxxv 

Song, the poetry of, xcvii-xcviii 

Sonnet, form of, Ixxxv-lxxxvii, 462, 494; 
origin of, 36; introduction into Eng- 
land, 36 

Sonnet on Chillon, text of, 215-216 ; ex- 
planation of, 535 

Sonnets, of Keats, — rank, 544; of Mil- 
ton, — form, 494, — number, 53; of 
Wordsworth, — rank, 164, 524 

Sonnets of Shakespeare, text of, 48-50 ; 
remarks on, 462-463 

Sonnet to Raleigh, text of, 47; form of 
Spenser's sonnets, 462, Ixxxvii 

Sordello, 295 

Southey, Robert, 163, 179 

Spenser, Edmund, criticism of, 38-39; 
life of, 39-40 ; works of, 40 ; sonnets 
of, Ixxxvii, 462. For his poems, — 
stanzas from the Faerie Queene, and 
the Sonnet to Raleigh, see titles under 
this index 

Spenserian stanza, Ixxxiii, 460 

Spondee, li, liii 

Stages, of dramatic action, c-ci 



2Q 



594 



INDEX 



Stanza, the, relation to the verse and the 
poem, Ixxx ; kinds of, Ixxx-lxxxv; 
three-line, Ixxx ; four-line, Ixxxi ; five-, 
six-, and seven-line, Ixxxii ; eight-line 
and more, Ixxxii ; classical, Ixxxiii 

Stress in verse, \\A^y\\\, passhn 

Structural forms of verse, Ixxxv-xci ; the 
ode, Ixxxv ; the sonnet, Ixxxv-lxxxvii ; 
the ' fourteener,' Ixxxvii ; fixed forms 
with refrain, Ixxxvii; French forms, 
Ixxxvii-xci 

Structural mode, the, of treating material, 
xxxii 

Substituted feet, Ix-Ixi, Ixii-lxiii, Ixvi- 
Ixvii, Ixviii 

Surrey, lienry Howard, Earl of, 36-37; 
his sonnets, Ixxxvii ; his blank verse, 

37 

Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 230, 252; 
his Sapphics, Ixxxiii ; his estimate of 
Coleridge, 530 

Syllables, variation in number of, Ixvi- 
Ixvii ; extra, Ixvii, Ixviii ; lacking, Ixviii 

Synasresis, Ixviii 

Synaloepha, Ixviii 

Synecdoche, xlvi 

Syntax study, importance of, in interpret- 
ing literature, 465 

Table of English Kings, opposite i 

Table of English Poets, opposite i 

Taine, criticism of Byron, 201 

Tale, metrical, xcvi 

Tarn 0' Shanter, text of, 153-159 ; cir- 
cumstances of composition, 514 ; notes 
on, 515-517 

Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, criticism 
of, 274 ; life of, 275-276 ; works of, 
275-440 ; the verse of his In Memoriam, 
Ixxxi ; his alcaics, Ixxxiv. For his 
poems, — CEnone, The Lady of Shalott, 
'Ulysses, Tit/ioiius, Crossing the Bar, 
and the Idylls of the King — Gareth 
and Lynette, Lancelot and Elaine, and 
The Passing of Arthur, see titles under 
this index ' 

Tenure of Kings afid Magistrates, 53 

Terza rima, Ixxx 

Test-passage, the, in criticism, cvi 

Tests, of poetry, ciii-cxi • 



Tetrameter, liv-lv 

Teutonic basis of English Language, 5 

Theory of Poetry, Wordsworth's, 161-162 

Thomson, James, 125; his Seasons, 125 

Three-line stanzas, Ixxx 

Thy r sis, 318 

Tintern Abbey, text of, 164-168 ; criti- 
cism of, 517 ; circumstances of com- 
position, 517; notes on, 517-519; 
sound quality in, Ixxiii-lxxiv ; as a 
reflective poem, xcvii ; 'touchstones' 
in, cviii 

Tithonus, text of, 291-293; criticism of, 
553; notes on, 553-554 

To a Skylark, text of, 223-226; circum- 
stances of composition, 536; notes on, 
536-537 ; as a lyric, xcvii ; ' touch- 
stones ' in, cviii 

To Mr. Cyriac Skinner, text of, 100; 
notes on, 496 

Tonality in verse ; melody, Ixviii-lxxvi ; 
harmony, Ixix, Ixxvi-lxxix 

To Night, text of, 229-230; criticism 
of, 538 ; notes on, 538 

To the Lord General Cromwell, text of, 
99; notes on, 495 

Tottel's Miscellany, 37 

' Touchstones,' the, Arnold's use of, in 
criticism, cvi-cviii 

Tractate on Education, 53 

Tragic justice, xcviii 

Tragic moment, the, ci 

Traveller, The, 133 

Trimeter, liv-lv 

Triolet, Ixxxviii 

Trochaic opening, the, Ixi 

Trochee, li, liii 

Troilus and Criseyde, 7 

Trope, the, Ixiv 

Truncation, Ixviii 

Twa Dogs, The, 147 

Ulysses, text of, 289-291 ; myth of, 552- 
553 ; notes on, 553 

Verse, an instrument of poetry, xxxviii ; 
compared with prose, xxxix ; the larger 
units of: stanzaic and structural forms, 
Ixxix-xci ; the rhythm of, 1-lxviii 

Vicar of Wakefield, The, 133 



INDEX 



595 



Victorian Poets, characteristics of, 252; 
list of, 252 

View of life, the, in poetry, cv-cvi 

Villanelle, Ixxxix 

Virginia, 253, 254 

Vision, xlv 

Vision of Sir Launfal, The, text of, 335- 
345 ; criticism of, 565 ; legend under- 
lying, 566; notes on, 566-571; source 
of its beauty, ex 

Vowels, kinds of sequence in verse, Ixxiii 
-Ixxv; tonality and classification of, 
Ixxiii 

Wallcnstein, Coleridge's translation of, 

179 
WestniinsterAbbey, burial-place of poets, 

7, 40, 103, 254, 276, 296 
Windsor Forest, 113 
Wordsworth, William, criticism of, 

161-163 ; his ' theory of poetry,' 161- 



162 ; Lyrical Ballads, 160-161 ; life of, 
163 ; works of, 163-164 ; as a sonnet- 
eer, 164, 524; as an interpretative 
poet, xxxiv ; his account of the compo- 
sition of The Ancient Mariner, 526- 
527 ; his account of his childhood ex- 
periences on which his Immortality 
Ode is based, 519. For his poems, — 
Tintern Abbey, Ode on the hitimations 
of Immortality, Ode to Duty, and the 
Sonnets, London, 1802, Composed upon 
Westminster Bridge, "It is a Beauteous 
Evening, Calm and Free," " The 
World is too Much with Us," and 
" Scorn not the Sonnet" see titles under 
this index 

"World is too much with Us, The," 
text of, 177 ; notes on, 524-525 

Wyatt, Sir Thomas, 36; his sonnets, 
Ixxxvii 

Wycliffe, John, 5 



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